THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POETRY    FOR   CHILDREN 


LooU  into  our  cliiklish  faces; 
Sec  you  not  nur  willing^  hearts? 

The  Children's  Apfeat. 


Poetry  for  Children 


EDITED      BY 


SAMUEL     ELIOT 

Superintendent  of  Schools 


\^      -      - 


ALTIIOKIZED    FOIt    LSE    IN   THE 

BOSTON      PUBLIC      SCHOOLS 

I  S8o 


G-0  2o  3 


Copyright, 

1S79. 
Samuel  Eliot. 


P/V 


1    y 

^iC  PREFACE. 

*  Thk  illustrations  of  this  volume  are  by  different  hands.  Some 
of  them  appear  so  helpful  in  interesting  the  reader  as  to  call 
fur    cordial    acknowledgment    from    the    editor. 

Many  poems  naturally  looked  for  in  a  collection  like  this  are 
omitted,    because    found   in    our    School    Readers. 

rhe  arrangement  of  these  selections  is  intended  to  be  elastic, 
changing  from  easier  to  harder  pieces,  and  back  again.  It  is  also 
meant  to  be  suggestive  of  the  likeness  or  the  difference  between 
one  poem  and  another,  so  as  to  ipiicken  thought  and  feeling. 
Let  us  hope  that  every  child  in  our  Primary  and  Grammar 
classes  will  find  something  here  to  please  him,  ami  that  the 
teachers  will  encourage  the  children,  first,  to  read  only  what  is 
suited  to  them,  and,  next,  to  commit  what  they  read  to  memory, 
as  the  be^t  means  of  exercising  that  faculty  and  kindling  the 
\\hole  intelligence. 

May  the  love  of  poetry,  and  of  the  good  that  j.octry  teaches, 
be   the    portion   of   our    children  1 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Children's  Appeal     .     .  i 

Infant  Joy 3 

Only  a  Baby  Small  ....  3 

Pketty  Cow 5 

Twinkle,    Twinkle,    I-ittle 

Star ^5 

The  Robin  Redbreasts      .     .  7 

The  Child's  Hymn      ....  S 
The  Fairies  of  the  Caldon- 

Low 9 

The  Little  Doves M 

The  Chimney-Sweep  .     ...  'S 
The  Death  ok  Master  Tom- 
my Rook 'S 

My  Good-fok-Xothing  ...  22 

The  Children  in  the  Moon  .  23 

Kitty  in  the  Basket      ...  26 

Pussy--Cat 27 

Little  White  Lily     ....  29 

Lily's  Ball 3' 

The  Poppy 33 


Page 

Little  Dandelion 34 

The  Violet 3^ 

The  Race  of  the  Flowers   .  37 

A  Little  Goose 3S 

Mary's  Lamb 42 

The  Pet  Lamb 43 

Poor  Susan 4^ 

Lucy  Gray;  or,  Solitude  .    .  47 

The  Dying  Child 5^ 

The  Reaper  and  THE  Flowers,  S4 

/Lullaby  on  an  Infant  Chief,  56 

The  Spartan  Boy 5^ 

Nell  and  her  Bird   ....  58 

The  Sailor's  Mother     ...  60 

The  Little  Girl's  Lament   .  62 

The  May  Queen 65 

On  Another's  Sorrow  .    .    .  7S 

The  Gleaner So 

The  Children  in  the  Wood,  Si 

Old  Christmas S9 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas  .  93 


VIU 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Little  JSTay o^ 

Freddie    and    tmk    Ciif.ukv- 

Tree 06 

The  Tree 97 

The    Death   of   Cock   Robin 

AND  Jenny  Wren.     ...      98 

Ranger 100 

Ranger's  Grave 103 

LocHiNVAR 105 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim  .  loS 
The  Soldier's  Dream  ...  112 
The     Burial    ok    Sir    John 

Moore 113 

Old  Ironsides 116 

Sweet  Home nS 

The  Traveller's  Return  .  119 
The  Ho.mes  of  England  .  .  120 
Lord  Ullin's  Daughter     .     .     122 

To  My  Mother 125 

The  Three  Friends 26 

Abou  Ben  Adhem    a.nd    the 

Angel ,,<; 

The  Haunted  Sprinc     ...     129 

A  Fairy's  Song 131 

Nose  and  Eyes 132 

The  Wind  in  a  Frolu  ...  13^ 
The  Lnchcape  Rock  ....  136 
The  Three  Bells i^o 

A.  ".  t: ,.,3 

The  Child  and  the  Angels  .  144 
Lord,  teach  a  Little  Child,     145 


Pag 
.Sleep,  Bahv,  Sleep  ....  141 
The  Little  Dreamer  ...  14- 
The  Little   Brother      .     .     .     14J 

CoCK-A-DoODLE-DoO     ....       14c 

A  Little  Girl's  Letter    .     .     15c 

A  Little  Brown  Bird  ...  151 

Eggs  and  Biros 152 

Little  Birdie jgj 

The  Turxle-Dove's  Nest  .    .  154 
Dame  Duck's  First  Lecture 

ON  Education 155 

Way  to  be  Happy 15S 

The  Strange  Little  Bov  .     .  159 

My  Jessie ,(53 

Little  L.\mh 164 

The  New  Moon 165 

The  Busy  Bee 167 

The  Ant jgg 

To  a  Butterfly 169 

The    Prisoner    to    a    Kohin 

WHO  came  to  his  Window,  170 

''■'^'K ,yj, 

Mahel  on  Midsummer  Day  .  173 

I  Heard  an  Angei 1S4 

Faith  i.n  God jg^ 

Nursery  Song iSS 

The  Angel's  Whisper    ...  190 

The   Old   Arm-Chair     ...  193 

GrANDPAI'A jg. 

Father  William 195 

A  Masquerade jg6 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Page 

The  Graves  ok  a  Household  19S 

George  Nidiver 201 

The   Idle   Shepherd-Boys     .  204 

Allen- \-Dale     ......  20S 

Robin     Hood's     Death      and 

Burial 210 

What  the  Winds  Bring    .     .  214 

In  March 315 

March 216 

Child  to  a  Rose 217 

The  Mountain  and  the  Squir- 
rel        219 

The  Waky  Trout 220 

Boys'  Play'  and  Gikls'   Play"  221 

John  Gilpin 22_^ 

Contented  John 235 

I  would  I  were  a  Note     .     .  236 

Wishing 237 

Give  me  a  Wish 239 

Under  the  Greenwood  Tree  240 

We  are  Seven 241 

The  Strange  Child's  Christ- 
mas       244 

A  Story-  by  the  Fire     .     .     .  24S 

Casahianca 250 

Tom  Bowling 252 

Black-eyed    Susan    ....  253 
The  Sands  of  Dee      ....  255 
A  Wet  Sheet  and   .\  Flow- 
ing Sea 256 

The  Bay  of  Biscay     .     .     .  257 


Page 

The  Wives  of  Brixham     .    .  259 

The  Northern  Seas  ....  263 

Winstanley 266 

The  Death  of  Nelson  .    .    .  279 

How  Sleep  the  Br.we  ...  281 

Charade 2S1 

The    Burial   or   the    Minni- 

SINK 283 

Mv  Kate 285 

Daybreak 2S7— 

Flowers 2S9 

The  Use  of  Flowers      .     .     .  290 

The  Palm-Tree 291 

The  Emperor's  Birds'-Nest,  294 

To  a  Redbreast 296 

The  Beggar 297 

John  Barleycorn 299 

There  was  a  Jolly'  Miller  .  301 

The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray-  .  303 
Blow,    Blow,    thou    Winter 

Wind 308 

Llewellyn  and  his  Dog    .    .  309 

The  Boat  of  Grass    ....  313 
He  Prayeth  well  who  Lov- 

ETH   WELL 319 

Good-Night,  Good-by'     .     .     .  320 

Life 3-1 

The  Better  Land 322 

Heaven 3^4 

The  Child's  Desire    ....  325 

Children,  Thank  God   •    .    .  326 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Drawn  and  Engraved  under  the  supervision  of  George  T.  Andrew. 


Page 

The  Children's  Appeal Miss  Humphrey  .    Frontispiece 

Only  a  Baby  Small F.  T.  Merrill 4 

Twinkle,  Twinkle,  Little  Star    .     .     .  Garrett  and  Merrill     ...      6 

The  Fairies  of  Caldon-Low F.  T.  Merrill 12 

The  Chimney-Sweep F.  T.  Merrill 16 

The  Death  of  Master  Tommy  Rook     .     E.  H.  Garrett 19 

The  Children  in  the  Moon Miss  Humphrey 33 

Lily's  Ball Miss  Gorley 31 

The  Violet E.  H.  Garrett 36 

Pussy-Cat F.  T.  Merrill 2S 

A  Little  Goose F.  T.  Merrill 3S 

Lucy  Gray;  or,  Solitude Garrett  and  Merrill     ...    47 

The  Re.\per  and  the  Flowers  ....     Miss  Humphrey 55 

Nell  and  her  Bird F.  T.  Merrill 58 

The  Little  Girl's  Lament Miss  Humphrey 63 

The  Mav-Qleen Miss  Humphrey 69 

The  Children  in  the  Wood Garrett  and  Merrill    .     .   83,85 

Old  Chkist.mas F.  T.  Merrill 90 

Freddie  and  the  Cherry-tkee  .     .     .     .     F.  T.  Merrill 96 

Ranger \V.  L.  ShepparJ 100 

Ranger's  Grave E.  H.  Garrett.     ......  104 

Lochinvar F.  T.  Merrill 107 

The  Battle  of  Blenheim Merrill  and  Garrett     .     .     .110 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore     .     .     .    A.  R.  ]Vaud 114 

Old  Ironsides A.  R.  li'aud 116 

Lo:tD  Ulli.n's  Daughter ^Urrill  and  Garrett     .     ■     .  122 

The  Thkee  Friends F.  T.  Merrill 126 

Tnii  Haunted  Spring Garrett  and  Merrill     .     .     .  130 


Xii  LIST   OF   ILLUSTKATIONS. 

Page 

The  Inciicahe  Rock I.  /{.  ]\'ai<J  i-S 

The  Three  Bells a.  R.  Waud     .    .     '.     .    .     ."  ,41 

-.  The  Child  and  the  Angels ,)//.«  Humphr.v 144 

A  Little  Girl's  Letter p.  T.  Merrill  .  i-o 

The  Turtle-Dove's  Nest E.  H.  Garrett 1-4 

The  Strange  Little  Boy F.  T.  Merrill  160 

My  Jessie pT  Merrill  '.     '.     '.'..'  ,62 

The  New  Moon Garre/t  and  Merrill     ...  165 

To  A  Butterfly E.  J/.  Garrett ,69 

Mabel  ON  Midsummer  Da \ Garrett  and  Merrill     .     174,179 

The  Angel's  Whisper Garrett  and  Merrill     .     .     .  i^ 

The  Old  Arm-chair Garrett  and  Merrill     .     .     .  193 

The  Graves  OF  A  IIou.seiiold      ....     E.  11.  Garrett ,99 

George  Nidiver Garrett  and  Merrill     '.     '.     !  20. 

The  Idle  Siiei-herd-Bovs EH.  Garrett 204 

RoniN  Hood's  Death  AND  BiRTAL  .     .     .     Garrett  and  Merrill     .     .     .213 

Child  to  a  Rose e.  H.  Garrett  .     .  21- 

JoHN  Gilpin ,,-.  X.  Shefpard  .     .     [     224",  232 

\\  ISHING Garrett  and  Merrill     .     .     .  23S 

The  Strange  Child's  Christmas    .     .     .     Garrett  and  Merrill     .     .     ,245 

Casabianca p  r.  Merrill  ....!!  250 

The  Sands  of  Di:e yr.  //.  Garrett 255 

The  Wives  OF  Brixham A.  J{.  n'aud 261 

The  Northern  Seas .].  /?.  ji'and .'264 

Wl.NSTANLEY J.  /;     J,-„„^/       ....      27',,  275 

Burial  OF  the  Minnisink E.H.Garrett  '   '  'S^ 

Flowers p  jj  Qarrett       .     .     .     .     !  2S9 

The  Emperor's  Bird's  Nest E.  H.  Garrett 294 

There  was  a  Jolly  Miller E.  H.  Garrett      .....  302 

Llewellyn  and  his  Dog \V.  L.  .Shepfard  .     .     .     .     .311 

The  Boat  OF  Grass W.  L.  Sheppard  .     .     .     .     .315 

The  Better  Land Garrett  and  Merrill     ...   522 

Children,  Thank  God.     . E.H.Garrett 326 


^1 


THE   CHILDREN'S  APPEAL. 


Give  us  light  amid  our  darkness  ; 

Let  us  know  the  good  from  ill ; 
Hate  us  not  for  all  our  blindness  ; 
Love  us,  lead  us,  show  us  kindness,  — 

You  can  make  us  what  you  will. 

We  are  willing ;  we  are  ready  ; 

We  would  learn  if  you  would  teach  ; 
We  have  hearts  that  yearn  towards  duty  ; 
We  have  minds  alive  to  beauty  ; 

Souls  that  any  heights  can  reach. 


We  shall  be  what  you  will  make  us  :  — 
Make  us  wise,  and  make  us  good  ; 

Make  us  strong  for  time  of  trial ; 

Teach  us  temperance,  self-denial, 
Patience,  kindness,  fortitude. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  APPEAL. 

Look  into  our  childish  faces ; 

See  you  not  our  willing  hearts? 
Only  love  us  —  only  lead  us  ; 
Only  let  us  know  you  need  us, 

And  we  all  will  do  our  parts. 


Train  us  ;  try  us  ;  days  slide  onward, 
They  can  ne'er  be  ours  again  : 

Save  us  ;  save  from  our  undoing  ; 

Save  from  ignorance  and  ruin  ; 
Free  us  all  from  wrong  and  stain. 


Send  us  to  our  loving  mothers, 

Angel-stamped  in  heart  and  brow. 

We  may  be  our  fathers'  teachers ; 

We  may  be  the  mightiest  preachers, 
In  the  dav  that  dawneth  now. 


Such  the  children's  mute  appealing. 

All  my  inmost  soul  was  stirred, 
And  my  heart  was  bowed  with  sadness, 
When  a  cry,  like  summer's  gladness, 

Said,  "  The  children's  prayer  is  heard  !  " 

Maky  HOWITI. 


INFANT  JOY.  —  ONLY   A  BABY   SMALL. 


INFANT  JOY. 


"  I  have  no  name, 
I  am  but  two  days  old." 
What  shall  I  call  thee } 
"  I  happy  am, 
Joy  is  my  name." 
Sweet  joy  befall  thee  ! 

Pretty  Joy! 

Sweet  Joy,  but  two  days  old, 

Sweet  Joy  I  call  thee  : 

Thou  dost  smile, 

I  sing  the  while  ; 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee  ! 


Blake. 

oJ<Ko« 


ONLY  A   BABY  SMALL. 


Only  a  baby  small, 
Dropt  from  the  skies  ; 

Only  a  laughing  face. 
Two  sunny  eyes ; 


ONLY  A  BABY   8MALL. 

Only  two  cheny  lips, 
One  chubby  nose  ; 

Only  two  little  hands, 
Ten  little  toes. 


Only  a  golden  head, 

Cmiy  and  soft ; 
Only  a  tongue  that  wags 

Loudly  and  oft : 
Only  a  little  brain. 

Empty  of  thought ; 
Only  a  little  heart, 

Troubled  with  nought. 


PRETTY  COW. 

Only  a  tender  flower, 

Sent  us  to  rear  ; 
Only  a  life  to  love 

While  we  are  here  : 
Only  a  baby  small, 

Never  at  rest ; 
Small,  but  how  dear  to  us. 

God  knoweth  best. 


M.  Barr. 


PRETTY    COW. 
\ 

Thank  you,  pretty  cow,  that  made 
Pleasant  milk  to  soak  my  bread, 

Ever}'  day  and  every  night, 

Warm,  and  fresh,  and  sweet,  and  white. 

Do  not  chew  the  hemlock  rank, 

Growing  on  the  weedy  bank  ; 
But  the  yellow  cowslips  eat. 

That  will  make  it  very  sweet. 

Where  the  purple  violet  grows, 
Where  the  bubbling  water  flows, 

Where  the  grass  is  fresh  and  fine. 
Pretty  cow,  go  there  and  dine. 


TWIXKLE,  TWINKI.E,  LITTLE    STAR. 


TWINKLE,    TWINKLE,    LITTLE    STAR. 


Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star; 
How  I  wonder  what  you  arc  ! 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
Like  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 


\\  hen  the  glorions  sun  is  set. 

When  the  grass  with  dew  is  wet. 
Then  you  show  your  little  light, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  all  the  night. 

In  the  (lark  blue  sky  you  keep. 
And  often  through  my  curtains  peep  ; 
For  you  never  shut  your  eye 
Till  the  sun  is  in  the  '.ky. 


THE  ROBIN  REDBREASTS. 

As  your  bright  and  tiny  spark 
Lights  the  traveller  in  the  dark, 
Though  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star. 

THE   ROBIN   REDBREASTS. 


Two  Robin  Redbreasts  built  their  nests 

Within  a  hollow  tree  ; 
The  hen  sat  quietly  at  home, 

The  cock  sang  merrily  ; 
And  all  the  little  young  ones  said, 

"Wee,  wee,  wee,  wee,  wee,  wee  !  " 

One  day  (the  sun  was  warm  and  bright, 

And  shining  in  the  sky) 
Cock  Robin  said,  "  My  little  dears, 

'Tis  ti-me  you  learn  to  fly  ; " 
And  all  the  little  young  ones  said, 

"I'll  try,  I'll  try,  I'll  try !  " 

I  know  a  child,  and  who  she  is 

I'll  tell  you  by-and-by, 
When  mamma  says,  "  Do  this,"  or  "  that," 

She  says,  "  Wliat  for.?"  and  "  Why?" 
She'd  be  a  better  child  by  far 

If  she  would  say,  "  I'll  try." 

Aunt  Efkif.'s  Rhymes. 


THE  CHILD'S  in':MN. 


THE    CHILD'S  HYMN. 


We  are  poor  and  lowly  born  ; 

With  the  poor  we  bide  ; 
Labor  is  our  heritage, 

Care  and  want  beside. 
What  of  this  ?  —  our  blessed  Lord 

Was  of  lowly  birth, 
And  poor  toiling  fishermen 

Were  His  friends  on  earth  ! 


We  are  ignorant  and  voung. 

Simple  children  all  ; 
Gifted  with  l)ut  humble  powers, 

And  of  learning  small. 
What  of  this?  —  our  blessed  Lord 

Loved  such  as  we  ; 
How  He  blessed  the  little  ones 

Sitting  on  His  knee  ! 


Mary  Howitt. 


THE  FAIRIES   OF  THE  CALDON-LOW. 


THE  FAIRIES  OF   THE   CALDON-LOW. 


A     MIDSUMMER     LEGEND. 


"  And  where  have  you  been,  my. Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me  ?  " 

"  I've  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon-Low, 
The  midsummer  night  to  see  !  " 

"  And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 
All  up  on  the  Caldon-Low  ?  "  — 

"  I  saw  the  blithe  sunshine  come  down, 
And  I  saw  the  merry  winds  blow." 

"  And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 
All  up  on  the  Caldon  Hill?"  — 

"  I  heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 
And  I  heard  the  corn-ears  fill." 

"  Oh,  tell  me  all,  my  Mary  — 
All,  all  that  ever  you  know  ; 
For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies 
Last  night  on  the  Caldon-Low." 


10  THE   FAIRIES   OF  THE  CALDOX-I.OW. 

"  Then  take  me  on  yoiu-  knee,  mother, 
And  listen,  mother  of  mine  : 
A  hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 
And  tlie  harpers  they  were  nine  ; 

"And  merry  was  the  glee  of  the  harp-strings. 
And  their  dancing  feet  so  small ; 
But,  oh  !   the  sound  of  their  talking 
Was  merrier  far  than  all  I  " 

"And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mai-y, 
That  you  did  hear  them  say?  "  — 

"  I'll  tell  you  all,  my  mother, 
But  let  me  have  my  way. 

"And  some  they  played  with  the  water, 
And  rolled  it  down  the  hill  : 
'And  this,'  they  said,  '  shall  speedily  turn 
The  poor  old  miller's  mill  : 

"  '  For  there  has  been  no  water 
Ever  since  the  first  of  May  : 
And  a  busy  man  shall  the  miller  be 
By  the  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

"  '  Oh,  the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh. 
When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise  ! 
The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes !  * 


THE   FAIRIES   OF  THE  CALDON-LOW.  11 

"And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds, 
That  sounded  over  the  hill, 
And  each  put  a  horn  into  his  mouth. 
And  blew  so  sharp  and  shrill  :  — 

"  'And  there,*  said  they,  '  the  merry  winds  go 
Away  from  every  horn  ; 
And  those  shall  clear  the  mildev/  dank 
From  the  blind  old  widow's  corn  : 

''  •  Oh,  the  poor  blind  widow  — 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 
She'll  be  merry  enough  when  the  mildew's  gone, 
And  the  corn  stands  stiff  and  strong  I  ' 

"And  some  they  brought  the  brown  linseed. 
And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low : 
'And  this,'  said  they,  '  by  the  sunrise. 
In  the  weaver's  croft  shall  grow  ! 

"  '  Oh.  the  poor  lame  weaver  ! 
How  he  will  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 
All  full  of  flowers  by  night ! ' 

"And  then  upspoke  a  brownie, 

With  a  long  beard  on  his  chin  : 

'  I  have  spun  up  all  the  tow.'  said  he, 

'And  I  want  some  more  to  spin. 


It 


I  *:<>^^-v      .  ;■ '/,;  > 


've  spun  a  piece  of  hempen  cloth, 
And  I  want  to  spin  another  — 
e  sheet  for  Mary's  bed, 
an  apron  for  her  mother  ! ' 

•ith  tliat  I  could  not  help  but  laugh, 
d  I  laughed  out  loud  and  free  ; 
then  on  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 

(If  \v;i'^  no  one  left  but  me. 


^fSt&ifJ 


THE   FAllilE.S   OF   THE   CALDON-LOW.  13 

"  And  all  on  top  of  the  Caldon-Low 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 
And  nothing  I  saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 

"  But,  as  I  came  down  from  the  hill-top, 
I  heard,  afar  below, 
How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  merry  the  wheel  did  go. 


"  And  I  peeped  into  the  widow's  field. 
And  sure  enough  were  seen 
The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn 
All  standing  stiff'  and  green  ! 

"  And  down  by  the  weaver's  croft  I  stole, 
To  see  if  the  flax  were  high  ; 
But  1  saw  the  weaver  at  his  gate. 
With  the  good  news  in  his  eye  ! 

'■'•  Now  this  is  all  I  heard,  mother, 
And  all  that  I  did  see  ; 
So.  prithee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 
For  I'm  tired  as  I  can  be  !  " 

Mary  Howitt. 


14  THE   LITTLE   DOVES. 


THE   LITTLE    DOVES. 

High  on  the  top  of  an  old  pine-tree 

Broods  a  mother-dove  with  her  young  ones  tlnee. 

Warm  over  them  is  her  soft,  dow^ny  breast. 

And  they  sing  so  sweetly  in  their  nest. 

"  Coo,"  say  the  little  ones,  "  Coo,"  says  she, 

All  in  their  nest  on  the  old  pine-tree. 

Soundly  they  sleep  through  the  moonshiny  night, 
Each  young  one  covered  and  tucked  in  tight ; 
Morn  wakes  them  up  with  the  first  blush  of  light, 
And  they  sing  to  each  other  witli  all  tlicir  might. 
"  Coo,"  say  the  little. ones.  etc. 

When  in  the  nest  they  are  all  left  alone. 

While  their  mother  far  for  their  dinner  has  ilown, 

Qiiiet  and  gentle  they  all  remain. 

Till  their  mother  the\-  see  come  home  again. 

Then  "  Coo,"  etc. 

When  the\'  are  fed  b\-  their  tender  mother. 
One  never  will  push  nor  crowd  another  : 
Each  opens  widely  his  own  little  bill, 
And  he  patiently  waits,  and  gets  his  till. 
Then  •'  Coo,"  etc. 


THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEP.  15 

Wisely  the  mother  begins  by  and  by 
To  make  her  young  ones  learn  to  fl}' ; 
Just  for  a  little  way  over  the  brink, 
Then  back  to  the  nest  as  quick  as  a  wink. 
And  "  Coo,"  etc. 

Fast  grow  the  young  ones,  day  and  night. 

Till  their  wings  are  plumed  for  a  longer  flight ; 

Till  unto  the  mat  the  last  draws  nigh 

The  time  when  they  all  must  say  '*  Good-by." 

Then  "  Coo,"  say  the  little  ones,  "  Coo,"  says  she, 

And  away  they  fly  from  the  old  pine-tree. 

Carols,  Hymns,  and  Songs. 


THE    CHIMNEY-SWEEP. 


''  Sweep  ho  !     Sweep  ho  !  " 
He  trudges  on  through  sleet  and  snow 

Tired  and  hungry  both  is  he, 
And  he  whistles  vacantly. 

Sooty  black  his  rags  and  skin, 
But  the  child  is  fair  within. 


16 


THE  CHLMXEY-,sWEEr. 

Ice  and  cold  are  better  fkr 
Than  his  master's  curses  are. 

Mother  of  tliis  little  one, 
Couldst  thou  see  thy  little  son 


"  Sweep  ho  !   Sweep  Jio  !  '' 
He  trudg-es  on  through  sleet  and  snc 

At  the  great  man's  door  he  knocks, 
Which  the  servant-maid  unlocks. 

Now  let  in  with  laugh  and  jeer, 
Tn  his  eye  there  stands  a  tear. 


THE   CHIMNEY-SWEEP.  17 

He  is  young,  but  soon  will  know 
How  to  bear  both  word  and  blow. 

"  Sweep  ho  !  Sweep  ho  !  " 
In  the  chimney,  sleet,  and  snow. 

Gladly,  should  his  task  be  done, 
Were't  the  last  beneath  the  sun. 

Faithfully  it  now  shall  be  : 

But,  soon  spent,  down  droppeth  he  ; 

Gazes  round,  as  in  a  dream  ; 

Very  strange,  but  true,  things  seem. 

Creeps  he  to  a  little  bed, 
Pillows  there  his  aching  head  ; 

And,  poor  thing  !   he  does  not  know 
There  he  lay  long  years  ago. 

Mrs.  Hooper. 


18      THE  DEATH  OF  MASTER  TOMMY  ROOK. 

THE 

DEATH    OF   MASTER    TOMMY  ROOK. 


A  pair  of  steady  rooks 

Chose  the  safest  of  all  nooks, 
In  the  hollow  of  a  tree  to  build  their  home  ; 

And  while  they  kept  within 

They  did  not  care  a  pin 
For  any  roving  sportsman  that  might  come. 

Their  family  of  five 

Were  all  happy  and  alive  ; 
And  Mrs.  Rook  was  careful  as  could  be 

To  never  let  them  out, 

Till  she  looked  all  round  about. 
And  saw  that  they  might  wander  far  and  free. 

She  had  talked  to  every  one 

Of  the  dangers  of  a  gun, 
And  fondly  begged  that  none  of  them  would  stir 

To  take  a  distant  flight, 

At  morning,  noon,  or  night. 
Before  they  prudently  asked  leave  of  her. 


But  one  fine  sunny  day, 
Towards  the  end  of  May, 
Young  Tommy  Rook  began  to  scorn 
her  power, 
/^'  And  said  that  he  would  fly 

Into  the  field  close  by, 
And  walk  among  the  daisies  for  an  hour. 

"  Stop,  stop  !  "   she  cried,  alarmed, 

"  I  see  a  man  that's  armed, 
And  he  will  shoot  you,  sure  as  you  are  seen  ; 

Wait  till  he  goes,  and  then. 

Secure  from  guns  and  men, 
We  all  will  have  a  ramble  on  the  green." 

But  Master  Tommy  Rook, 

With  a  very  saucy  look. 
Perched  on  a  twig,  and  plumed  his  jetty  breast ; 

Still  talking  all  the  while, 

In  a  very  pompous  style. 
Of  doing  just  what  he  might  like  the  best. 


20  THE   DEATH  OF  MASTEE   TOMMY   KOOK. 

"  I  don't  cai"e  one  bit,"  said  he, 

' '  For  any  gun  you  see  ; 
i  am  tired  of  the  cautions  you  bestow  : 

I  mean  to  have  my  way. 

Whatever  vou  may  533% 
And  shall  not  asi<.  when  I  may  stay  or  go." 

"But,  my  son,"  the  mother  cried, 

"  I  only  wish  to  guide 
Till  you  are  wise  and  fit  to  go  alone  : 

I  have  seen  much  more  of  life, 

Of  danger,  woe,  and  strife, 
Than  you.  my  child,  can  possibh'  have  known. 

"Just  wait  ten  minutes  liere,  — 

Let  that  man  disappear  ; 
I  am  sure  he  means  to  do  some  evil  thing  : 

I  fear  you  may  be  shot 

If  you  leave  this  sheltered  spot ; 
So  pray  come  back,  and  keep  beside  my  wing." 

But  Master  Tommy  Rook 

Gave  another  saucy  look, 
And  chattered  out,  "Don't  care  !  don't  care  I  don't  care  !" 

And  off  he  flew  with  glee, 

From  his  brothers  in  the  tree. 
And  liirhtcd  on  the  field  so  green  and  fiiir. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MASTER  TOMMY  ROOK.  21 

He  hopped  about,  and  found 

All  pleasant  things  around  ; 
He  strutted  through  the  daisies,  —  but,  alas  ! 

A  loud  shot  —  bang  !  —  was  heard, 

And  the  wounded,  silly  bird 
Rolled  over,  faint  and  dying,  on  the  grass. 

"  There,  there,  I  told  you  so  !  " 

Cried  his  mother  in  her  woe, 
"  I  warned  you  with  a  parent's  thoughtful  truth  : 

And  you  see  that  I  was  right 

When  I  tried  to  stop  your  flight, 
And  said  vou  needed  me  to  guide  your  vouth." 

Poor  Master  Tommy  Rook 

Gave  a  melancholy  look. 
And  cried,   just  as  he  drew  his  latest  breath  : 

"Forgive  me,  mother  dear. 

And  let  my  brothers  hear 
That  disobedience  caused  my  cruel  death." 

Now,  when  his  lot  was  told. 

The  rooks,  both  young  and  old. 

All  said  he  should  have  done  as  he  was  bid,  — 

That  he  well  deserved  his  fate  : 

And  I,  who  now  relate 

His  hapless  story,  really  think  he  did. 

Ei.izA  Cook. 


22  MY   GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 


My    GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 


"  What  are  you  good  for,  my  brave  little  man? 
Answer  that  question  for  me,  if  you  can,  — 
You,  with  your  fingers  as  white  as  a  nun, — 
You,  with  your  ringlets  as  bright  as  the  sun. 
All  the  day  long,  with  your  busy  contriving. 
Into  all  mischief  and  fun  you  are  driving  : 
See  if  your  wise  little  noddle  can  tell 
What  you  are  good  for.     Now,  ponder  it  well."- 

Over  the  carpet  the  dear  little  feet 

Came  with  a  patter  to  climb  on  my  seat ; 

Two  merry  eyes,  full  of  frolic  and  glee, 

Under  their  lashes  looked  up  unto  me  ; 

Two  little  hands,  pressing  soft  on  my  face. 

Drew  me  down  close  in  a  loving  embrace  ; 

Two  rosy  lips  gave  the  answer  so  true, 

"  Good  to  love  you,  mamma,  —  good  to  love  you." 

Posies  for  Children. 


LMiENi^lN  THE    MOON 


Hearken,  child,  unto  a  story  ! 
For  the  moon  is  in  the  sky, 
And  across  her  shield  of  silver 
See  two  tinv  cloudlets  fly. 

Watch  them  closely,  mark  them  sharply, 

As  across  the  light  they  pass : 
Seem  thev  not  to  have  the  figures 

Of  a  little  lad  and  lass? 


24  THE  CHILDREN   IX  THE   :M00N. 

See,  my  child,  across  their  shoulders 
Lies  a  little  pole  I   and  lo  ! 

Yonder  speck  is  just  the  bucket 
Swinging  softly  to  and  fro. 


It  is  said  these  little  children. 

Many  and  many  a  summer  night. 
To  a  little  well  far  northward 

Wandered  in  the  still  moonlight. 


To  the  wayside-well  they  trotted, 
Filled  their  little  buckets  there  ; 

And  the  moon-man,  looking  downward. 
Saw  how  beautiful  they  were. 


Qiioth  the  man.  '•  How  vexed  and  sulky 

Looks  the  little  rosy  boy  ! 
But  the  little  handsome  maiden 

Trips  behind  him  full  of  joy. 


"To  the  well  behind  the  hedgerow 
Trot  the  little  lad  and  maiden  ; 

From  the  well  behind  the  hedgerow 
Now  the  little  pail  is  laden. 


THE   CHILDREN   IN  THE  MOON.  25 

"  How  they  please  me  !    how  they  tempt  me  ! 

Shall  I  snatch  them  up  to-night?  — 
Snatch  them,  set  them  here  forever 

In  the  middle  of  my  light  ? 


"  Children,  ay,  and  children's  children, 
Should  behold  my  babes  on  high  ; 

And  my  babes  should  smile  forever, 
Calling  others  to  the  sky  !  " 


Never  is  the  bucket  emptv. 

Never  are  the  children  old, — 
Ever  when  the  moon  is  shining 

We  the  children  mav  behold. 


26  KITTY  IN  THE  BASKET. 


KITTY  IN    THE    BASKET. 


"  Where  is  my  little  l^asket  gone?" 

Said  Charlie  boy  one  day. 
"  I  guess  some  little  boy  or  girl 

Has  taken  it  away. 

"And  kitty,  too,  I  can't  iind  her. 

Oh,  dear,  what  shall  I  do.'' 
I  wish  I  could  my  basket  find, 

And  little  kitty  too. 

"  I'll  go  to  mother's  room  and  look  ; 

Perhaps  she  may  be  there, 
For  kitty  loves  to  take  a  nap 

In  mother's  easy-chair. 

"  O  mother  !   mother  !  come  and  look  ! 

See  what  a  little  heap  ! 
My  kitty's  in  the  basket  here, 

All  cuddled  down  to  sleep." 

He  took  the  basket  carefully, 
And  brought  it  in  a  minute, 

And  showed  it  to  his  mother  dear. 
With  little  kitty  in  it. 


Mrs.  Follen. 


PUSSY-CAT.  27 


PUSSr-CAT. 


Pussy-cat  lives  in  the  servants'  hall, 

She  can  set  up  her  back  and  purr  ; 
The  little  mice  live  in  a  crack  in  the  wall, 

But  they  hardly  dare  venture  to  stir  ; 

For  whenever  they  think  of  taking  the  air, 

Or  filling  their  little  maws. 
The  pussy-cat  says,  "  Come  out  if  you  dare  ; 

I  will  catch  you  all  with  my  claws." 

Scrabble,  scrabble,  scrabble  !  went  all  the  little  mice, 

For  they  smelt  the  Cheshire  cheese  ; 
The  pussy-cat  said,  "  It  smells  very  nice  ; 

Now  do  come  out,  if  you  please." 

"Squeak!"    said   the   little    mouse.     '^Squeak,  squeal 
squeak  !  " 

Said  all  the  young  ones  too,  — 
"  We  never  creep  out  when  cats  are  about, 

Because  we're  afraid  of  you." 

So  the  cunning  old  cat  lay  down  on  a  mat 

By  the  fire  in  the  servants'  hall : 
"  If  the  little  mice  peep  they'll  think  I'm  asleep  ;" 

So  she  rolled  herself  up  like  a  ball. 


•28 


PUSSY-CAT. 


"  Squeak  !  "  said  the  little  mouse  ;  "  we'll  creep  out 

And  eat  some  Cheshire  cheese  : 
That  silly  old  cat  is  asleep  on  the  mat, 

And  we  may  sup  at  our  ease." 

Nibble,  nibble,  nibble  !  went  all  the  little  mice, 

And  they  licked  their  little  paws ; 
Then  the  cunning  old  cat  sprang  up  from  the  mat, 

And  caught  them  all  with  her  claws. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


LITTLE   WHITE   LILY.  29 


LITTLE    WHITE  LILT. 


Little  white  Lily 

Sat  by  a  stone. 
Drooping  and  waiting 

Till  the  sun  shone. 
Little  white  Lily 

Sunshine  has  fed  ; 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  lifting  her  head. 

Little  white  Lily 

Said,  "  It  is  good  ; 
Little  white  Lily's 

Clothing  and  food." 
Little  white  Lily 

Drest  like  a  bride  ! 
Shining  with  whiteness, 

And  crowned  beside ! 

Little  white  Lily 

Droopeth  with  pain. 

Waiting  and  waiting 
For  the  wet  rain. 


30  LITTLE   WHITE  LILY. 


Little  white  Lily 

Iloldeth  her  cup  ; 
Rain  is  fast  falling 

And  filling  it  up. 


Little  white  Lily 

Said,  "  Good  again, 
When  I  am  thirsty 

To  have  fresh  rain. 
Now  I  am  stronger, 

Now  I  am  cool  ; 
Heat  cannot  burn  me, 

My  veins  are  so  full." 


Little  wdiitc  Lily 

Smells  very  sweet ; 
On  her  head  sunshine, 

Rain  at  her  feet. 
Thanks  to  the  sunshine. 

Thanks  to  the  rain  ! 
Little  white  Lily 

Is  happy  again  ! 

George  MacDonald. 


LILT'S  BALL 


Lily  gave  a  pai'ty  ; 

And  her  little  playmates  all, 
Gayly  drest,  came  in  their  best, 

To  dance  at  Lily's  ball. 

Little  Qiiaker  Primrose 

Sat  and  never  stirred, 
And,  except  in  whispers, 

Never  spoke  a  word. 

vSnowdrop  nearly  fainted 
Because  the  room  was  hot ; 

And  went  away,  before  the  rest 
With  sweet  Forget-me-not. 

Pansy  danced  with  Daffodil, 

Rose  with  Violet ; 
Silly  Daisy  fell  in  love 

With  pretty  Mignonette. 


32  LILY'S  BAI.L. 

But,  when  they  danced  the  country-dance, 

One  could  scarcely  tell 
Which  of  these  two  danced  it  best,  — 

Cowslip  or  Heatherbell. 

Between  the  dances,  when  they  all 

Were  seated  in  their  places, 
I  thought  I'd  never  seen  before 

So  many  pretty  faces. 

But,  of  all  the  pretty  maidens 

I  saw  at  Lily's  ball, 
Darling  Lily  was  to  me 

The  sweetest  of  them  all. 

And,  when  the  dance  was  over. 

They  went  downstairs  to  sup  ; 
And  each  had  a  taste  of  honey-cake, 

With  dew  in  a  buttercup. 

And  all  were  dressed  to  go  away, 

Before  the  set  of  sun  ; 
And  Lily  said  "  Good-by,"  and  gave 

A  kiss  to  every  one. 

And  before  the  moon  or  a  single  star 

Was  shining  overhead, 

Lily  and  all  her  little  friends 

W^MC  fast  asleep  in  bed. 

Fun  and  Earnest. 


THE   POPPY<  33 


THE   POPPY. 


High  on  a  bright  and  sunny  bed 
A  scarlet  poppy  grew  ; 

And  up  it  held  its  staring  head, 
And  thrust  it  full  in  view. 


Yet  no  attention  did  it  win 
By  all  these  eflbrts  made, 

And  less  unwelcome  had  it  been 
In  some  retired  shade. 


For  though  within  its  scarlet  breast 
No  sweet  perfume  was  found, 

It  seemed  to  think  itself  the  best 
Of  all  the  flowers  around. 


From  this  I  may  a  hint  obtain, 

And  take  great  care  indeed. 

Lest  I  appear  as  pert  and  vain 

As  is  this  gaudy  weed. 

Jane  Taylor. 


34  LiTXLE  dandi:liun. 


LITTLE   DANDELION. 


Gay  little  Dandelion 

Lights  up  the  meads, 
Swings  on  her  slender  foot, 

Telleth  her  beads. 
Lists  to  the  robin's  note 

Poured  from  above  ; 
Wise  little  Dandelion 

Asks  not  for  love. 

Cold  lie  the  daisy  banks 

Clothed  but  in  green, 
Where,  in  the  days  agone. 

Bright  hues  were  seen. 
Wild  pinks  are  slumbering, 

Violets  delay  ; 
True  little  Dandelion 

Greeteth  the  ]\la\  . 

Brave  little  Dandelion  I 
Fast  falls  the  snow, 

Bending  the  daflbdil's 
ILiughty  head  low. 


LITTLE  DANDELION.  35 

Under  that  fleecy  tent, 

Careless  of  cold, 
Blithe  little  Dandelion 

Counteth  her  gold. 


Meek  little  Dandelion 

Groweth  more  fair. 
Till  dies  the  amber  dew 

Out  from  her  hair. 
High  rides  the  thirsty  sun. 

Fiercely  and  high  ; 
Faint  little  Dandelion 

Closeth  her  eye. 


Pale  little  Dandelion, 

In  her  white  shroud, 
Heareth  the  angel-breeze 

Call  from  the  cloud  ! 
Tiny  plumes  fluttering 

Make  no  delay  ; 
Little  winged  Dandelion 

Soareth  away. 

Helen  B.  Bostwick. 


/C>. 


THE    VIOLET. 

Down  in  a  green  and  shady  bed 

A  modest  violet  grew  ; 
Its  stalk  was  bent,  it  hung  its  head, 

As  if  to  hide  from  view. 

And  yet  it  was  a  lovely  flower, 

Its  colors  bright  and  fair  I 
It  might  have  graced  a  ros\'  bower, 

Instead  of  hiding  there. 

Yet  tliere  it  was  content  to  bloom. 

In  modest  tints  arraved  ; 
And  there  diffused  its  sweet  joerfume 

Within  the  silent  shade. 

Then  let  mc  to  the  \alley  go. 

This  pretty  flower  to  see, 
That  I  mav  also  learn  to  <g\ow 

In  sweet  humilitv. 


Tank  Taylor. 


THE   RACE   OF  THE   FLOWERS.  37 


THE   RACE    OF   THE   FLOWERS. 


The  trees  and  the  flowers  seem  running  a  race, 

But  none  treads  down  the  other ; 
And  neither  thinks  it  his  disgrace 

To  be  later  than  his  brother. 
Yet  the  pear-tree  shouts  to  the  lilac-tree, 

''  Make  haste,  for  the  spring  is  late  !  " 
And  the  lilac-tree  whis^Ders  to  the  chestnut-tree 

(Because  he  is  so  great), 
"  Pray  you,  great  sir,  be  quick,  be  quick. 
For  down  below  we  are  blossominPT  thick  !  " 


Then  the  chestnut  hears,  and  comes  out  in  bloom, 

White  or  pink,  to  the  tip-top  boughs  : 
Oh  !   why  not  grow  higher,  there's  plenty  of  room. 

You  beautiful  tree,  with  the  sky  for  your  house.'' 
Then,  like  music,  thev  seem  to  burst  out  together, 

The  little  and  the  big,  with  a  beautiful  burst ; 
They  sweeten  the  wind,  they  paint  the  weather, 

And  no  one  remembers  which  was  first,  — 
White  rose,  red  rose, 
Bud  rose,  shed  rose, 


/^  1  -H)  '^  r- 

U  0  ^  J  J 


38  A   T.TTTLE    GOOSE. 

Larkspur  and  lily,  and  the  rest ; 

North,  east,  south,  west. 

June,  July,  August,  September  ! 
Ever  so  late  in  the  year  will  come 
Many  a  red  geranium. 

And  chrysanthemums  up  to  November  ! 
Then  the  winter  has  overtaken  them  all. 
The  fogs  and  the  rains  begin  to  fall ; 
And  the  flowers,  after  running  their  races, 
Are  weary  and  shut  up  their  faces, 
And  under  the  ground  they  go  to  sleep. 
"  Is  it  very  far  down.?  "  —  •'  Yes,  ever  so  deep." 

LiLLiPUT  Levee. 


A    LITTLE    GOOSE. 


The  chill  November  day  was  done, 

The  working  world  home  faring  ; 
The  wind  came  roaring  through  the  streets, 

And  set  the  gaslights  flaring  ; 
And  hopelessly  and  aimlessly 

The  scared  old  leaves  were  flying,  — 
When,  mingled  with  the  soughing  wind, 

I  heard  a  small  voice  crying. 


A  LITTLE   GOOSE. 


39 


And,  shivering  on  the  corner,  stood 
A  child  of  four,  or  over  ; 

No  cloak  or  hat  her  small  soft  arnis 
And  wind-blown  curls  to  cover : 


Her  dimpled  face  was  stained  with  tears  ; 

Her  round  blue  eyes  ran  over ; 
She  cherished  in  her  wee.  cold  hand 

A  bunch  of  faded  clover. 


40  A   LITTLE   GOOSE. 

And,  one  hand  round  her  treasure,  while 

She  sHpped  in  mine  the  other, 
Half-scared,  half-contidential,  said, 

"  Oh  !  please,  I  want  my  mother."  — 
"  Tell  me  your  street  and  number,  pet. 

Don't  cry  :   I'll  take  you  to  it." 
Sobbing,  she  answered,  "  I  forget: 

The  or<jan  made  me  do  it. 


"  He  came  and  played  at  Aliller's  step, — 

The  monkey  took  the  money  ; 
I  followed  down  the  street  because 

That  monkey  was  so  funny. 
I've  walked  about  a  hundred  hours 

From  one  street  to  another  ; 
The  monkey's  gone  ;  I've  spoiled  mv  flowers 

Oh,  please,  I  want  my  mother." 

"  But  what's  your  mother's  name.^  and  what 

The  street.-*     Now  think  a  minute."  — 
"  My  mother's  name  is  Mother  Dear ; 

The  street  —  I  can't  begin  it."  — 
"  But  what  is  strange  about  the  house. 

Or  new,  —  not  like  the  others  ?  "  — 
"  I  guess  you  mean  my  trundle-bed, — 

Mine  and  my  little  brother's. 


A   LITTLE   GOOSE.  41 

"  Oh  dear !  I  ought  to  be  at  home 

To  help  him  say  his  prayers,  — 
He's  such  a  baby  he  forgets  ; 

And  we  are  both  such  players  ; 
And  there's  a  bar  between  to  keep 

From  pitching  on  each  other, 
For  Harry  rolls  when  he's  asleep  ; 

Oh  dear  !  I  want  my  mother." 

The  sky  grew  stormy  ;  people  passed 

All  muffled,  homeward  faring. 
"  You'll  have  to  spend  the  night  with  me," 

I  said  at  last,  despairing. 
I  tied  a  kerchief  round  her  neck  : 

"  What  ribbon's  this,  my  blossom  .''  "  — 
"Why,  don't  you  know.''"  she,  smiling,  said, 

And  drew  it  from  her  bosom. 

A  card  with  numl)er,  street,  and  name  ! 

My  eyes,  astonished,  met  it; 
"For,"  said  the  little  one,  "you  see 

I  might  some  time  forget  it. 
And  so  I  wear  a  little  thing 

That  tells  you  all  about  it ; 
For  mother  says  she's  very  sure 

I  should  get  lost  without  it." 

Eliza  S.  Turner. 


42  >[ARY'S    1>AMB. 


MART'S  LAMB. 


Mary  had  a  little  lamb, 

Its  fleece  was  white  as  snow  ; 
And  everywhere  that  JSIary  went, 

The  lamb  was  sure  to  go. 

He  followed  her  to  school  one  day.  — 

That  was  against  the  rule  ; 
It  made  the  children  laugh  and  play. 

To  see  a  lamb  at  school. 

So  the  teacher  turned  him  out, 

But  still  he  lingered  near. 
And  waited  patiently  about, 

Till  Mary  did  appear. 

Then  he  ran  to  her,  and  laid 

His  head  upon  her  arm. 
As  if  he  said,  "  I'm  not  afraid,  — 

You'll  keep  me  from  all  harm." 

"  What  makes  the  lamb  love  Mary  so?" 

The  eager  children  cry. 
"  Oh,  Mary  loves  the  lamb,  you  know," 

The  teacher  did  reply. 

MRb.  Hale. 


THE  PET  LAMB.  43 


THE   PET  LAMB. 


The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  blink  ; 

I    heard    a   voice:    it    said,     *'  Drink,    pretty    creature. 

drink  !  " 
And,  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me  I  espied 
A  snow-white  mountain  lamb,  with  a  maiden  at  its  side. 

No  other  sheep  were  near,  the  lamb  was  all  alone, 
And  by  a  slender -cord  was  tethered  to  a  stone  ; 
With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the  little  maiden  kneel. 
While  to  that  mountain  lamb  she  gave  its  evening  meal. 

The  lamb,  while  from  her  hand  he  thus   his  supper  took, 
Seemed  to  feast  with  head  and  ears  ;  and  his  tail  with 

pleasure  shook. 
"  Drink,  pretty  creature,  drink,"  she  said  in  such  a  tone, 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own. 

'Twas  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a  child  of  beauty  rare  ! 
I  watched  them  with  delight :  they  were  a  lovely  pair. 
Now  with  her  empty  can  the  maiden  turned  away  ; 
But,  ere  ten  yards  were  gone,  her  footsteps  did  she  stay. 


44  THE   PET  LAMB. 

Towards    the   lamb  slie   looked ;    and   froin    that  shady 

place 
I,  unobserved,  could  see  the  workings  of  her  face  : 
If  Nature  to  her  ton^jue  could  measured  numbers  brinsf. 
Thus,   thought  I,   to  her  lamb   that    little    maid    might 

sing :  — 

"  What  ails  thee,  young  one.^     What.'     Why  pull  so  at 

thy  cord.'' 
Is  it  not  well  with  thee.'  well  both  for  bed  and  board .^ 
Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass  can  be  ; 
Rest,  little  young  one,  rest:  what  is't  that  aileth  thee.' 


"  Rest,  little  young  one.  rest;   thou  hast  forgot  the  day 
When  my  father  found  thee  first  in  places  far  away  : 
Many  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou  wert  owned  by 

none. 
And  thy  mother  from   thy  side  for  evermore  was  gone. 


"  He  took    thee  in   his   arms,   and    in    pih-  brought   thee 

home  : 
A  blessed    day   for    thee  !     Then   whither  wouldst  thou 

roam  ? 
A  faithful  nurse  thou  hast :   the  dam  that  did  thee  yean 
UjDon  the  mountain-tops  no  kinder  could  have  been. 


THE   PET   LAMB.  45 

"  Thou  know'st  that  twice  a  day  I  have  brought  thee  in 

this  can 
Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever  ran  ; 
And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is  wet  with  dew, 
I  bring  thee   draughts   of  milk,  —  warm  milk  it  is  and 

new. 

"  It  will  not,  will  not  rest !  —  poor  creature,  can  it  be 
That  'tis   thy   mother's    heart  which   is  working    so    in 

thee  ? 
Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to  thee  are  dear, 
And  dreams  of  things  which  thou  canst  neither  see  nor 

hear." 

As  homeward  through  the  lane  I  went  with  lazy  feet, 
This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  repeat ; 
And  it  seemed,  as  I  retraced  the  ballad  line  by  line, 
That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one-half  of  it  was  mine. 


Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the  song ; 

"Nay,"  said  I,    "  more   than    half   to   the  damsel  must 

belong, 
For  she  looked  with  such  a  look,  and  she  spake  with  such 

a  tone, 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  mine  own." 

Wordsworth. 


46  POOR  SUSAN. 


POOR    SUSAN. 


At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  davHglit  appears, 
There's  a  thrush  that  sings  loud.  —  it  has  sung  for  three 

years ; 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;   what  ails  her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  \olumes  of  vapor  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in   the  midst  of  the  dale. 
Down  which  slie  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  ;   but  they  fade, — 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade  : 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colors  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes. 

Wordsworth. 


'So  mate,  no  comrade,  Lucy  knew  ; 

She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 

Besfde  a  human  door. 


48 


LUCY  (iRAY;    OK,  SOLITUDE. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night,  — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 

And  take  a  lantenu  child!  to  light 
Your  mother  througli  the  snow." 

"  That,  father,  will  I  gladh-  do  ; 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon,  — 

The  minster  clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon." 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook 
And  snapped  a  fagot  band  : 

He  plied  his  work  ;   and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  Wither  is  the  mountain  roe  ; 

With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 

That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 
She  wandered  up  and  down, 

And  many  a  hill  <lid  Lucy  climb, 
But  ncwr  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide  :  ^ 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  ^ruidc. 


LUCr  GRAY;    OR,  SOLITUDE.  49 

At  daybreak  on  a  hill  they  stood 

That  overlooked  the  moor, 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 

A  furlong  from  their  door. 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play. 

The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 

Will  never  more  be  seen. 

And,  turning  homeward,  now  they  cried. 

"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet  I  " 
When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 

The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downward  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small. 

And  through  the  broken  ha\vthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone  wall  ; 

And  then  an  o^^en  field  they  crossed  : 

The  marks  were  still  the  same  ; 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 

The  footmarks  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 

And  farther  were  there  none  ! 


50  THE   DYING   CHILD. 

Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 

She  is  a  living  child, — 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 

Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 

And  never  looks  behind. 
And  sings  a  solitary-  song 

That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


WORDiiWOKTH. 


oXKc 


THE   DYING    CHILD. 


A  little  child  lav  on  his  bed 

And  drew  a  heav)'  breath, 
And  moaning  raised  his  weary  head. 

Damp  with  the  dews  of  death. 
Upon  his  bed  the  sunset  cast 

The  broad  and  yellow  ray 
Tluit  oft  in  pleasant  evenings  past 

Had  warned  him  from  his  play. 
He  clasped  his  mother's  hand  and  sighed, 

And  to  his  lip  arose 
A  little  prayer  he  learnt  beside 

Her  knee  at  even's  close. 


THE   DYING  CHILD.  51 

And  thus  he  prayed,  ere  darkness  stole 

Upon  tlie  silence  deep, 
The  Blessed  One  to  keep  his  soul 

And  guard  him  in  his  sleep  :  — 

'■'■A/i!  gentle  yesns^  meek  and  mild^ 
Look  down  on  me^  a  little  child ; 
Ah  !  pity  my  simplicity^ 
And  grant  me  grace  to  come  to  Theel 

'''Four  corners  are  around  ?ny  bed^ 
At  every  one  an  angel  spread ; 
One  to  lead  vie^  one  to  feed  me^ 
Thvo  to  take  my  soul  to  heaven. 

'•  And  they  will  take  it  soon  ;  I  know 

I  have  not  long  to  wait, 
Ere  with  those  Shining  Ones  I  go 

Within  the  pearly  gate  ; 

"  Ere  I  shall  look  upon  His  face 

Who  died  that  I  might  live 
With  Him  forever,  through  the  grace 

That  none  save  He  can  give  ! 

"  I  go  wdiere  the  happy  waters  flow 

By  the  city  of  our  King, 
Where  never  cometh  pain  nor  woe, 

Nor  any  evil  thing. 


52  THE  dyi:n(;  riiii.i). 

"  I  go  to  play  beneath  the  tree 
Upon  whose  branches  high 

The  pleasant  fruits  of  healing  be, 
That  none  may  taste  and  die. 

"  I  go  to  join  the  blessed  throng 
Who  walk  arrayed  in  white. 

To  learn  of  them  the  holy  song 
That  rises  dav  and  night. 

"  I  see  tliem  by  the  emerald  light 

Shed  by  the  living  Bow  : 
Young  seraph  faces,  pure  and  briglit, 

More  fair  than  aught  below  ! 

"  Oh  !   come  to  me,  ve  blessed  ones, 
And  take  me  in  your  arms : 

I  know  you  by  your  shining  robes, 
And  by  your  waving  palms. 

"  Your  smiles  are  sweet  as  is  the  babe's 

Upon  my  mother's  knee  ; 
()  little  one  !   I  would  that  thou 

\\'ert  there  along  with  me  ! 

"  How  happily  our  days  would  flow 
Where  all  is  glad  and  fair ! 

Ah  !  might  the  faces  that  I  know 
But  look  upon  me  there  I 


THE   DYING  CHILD.  53 

"  For  something  dear  will  fail  awhile 

In  those  abodes  of  bliss, — 
The  sweetness  of  my  mother's  smile, 

My  fatlier's  evening  kiss. 

"  If  they  will  miss  me  on  the  earth, 

I  shall  miss  them  above, 
And  'mid  the  holy  angel  mirth 

Shall  think  on  those  I  love. 

"  Bnt  when  they  come  I  shall  be  first 

To  give  them  welcome  sweet ; 
My  voice  shall  swell  the  joyous  burst 

That  doth  the  ransomed  greet ! 

"  I  come,  O  Saviour  !  yes,  I  haste 

Thy  ransomed  child  to  be, 
Yet  T  have  many  on  the  earth. 

And  none  in  heaven  but  Thee  !  " 

And  then  a  Voice  spake  soft  and  clear, 
"  Whom  wouldst  thou  have  but  Me.'' 

Who,  in  the  heavens  or  with  thee  here, 
Hath  owned  such  love  for  thee  ?  " 

And  the  child  folded  his  wan  hands,  and  smiled 
As  o'er  a  blissfid  meaning ;  but  his  breath 
Failed  in  the  happy  utterance,  as  he  met 
His  Father's  kiss  upon  the  lip  of  Death. 

Dora   Gkkknwei.i.. 


54  THE   ilEAPEll  AM>   THE  PEOWEllS. 


THE  REAPER   AND   THE   FLOWERS. 


There  is  a  reaper  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen. 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fiiir?"  saith  he  ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 
"Dear  tokens  of  the  eartli  are  they. 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white. 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 


THE  REAPER  .VXD   THE   FLOWERS. 


00 


And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love  : 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  licjht  above. 


Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath,  ^     I\^^^     ' 

The  reaper  came  that  day  ;  ^&  I 

'Twas  an  angel  visited  the  green  ^g 

earth,  S  !(8^'^  \ 

And  took  the  flowers  awav. 


Longfellow. 


56  LULLABY    ON    AX    LNFAXT   CHIEF. 


LULLABY  ON  AN  LNFANT   CHLEF. 


Oh,  hush  thee,  ni}'  babv.  thy  sire  was  a  knight. 
Thy  mother  a  lady,  both  lovely  and  bright ; 
The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers  we  see. 
They  all  are  belonging,  dear  baby,  to  thee. 

Oh,  fear  not  the  bugle,  though  loudly  it  blows. 

It  calls  but  the  warders  that  guard  thy  repose  ; 

Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades  would  be  red. 

Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman  draws  near  to  thy  bed. 

Oh,  hush  thee,  my  baby,  the  time  will  soon  come 
When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trumpet  and  drum  ; 
Then  husli  tliee.  my  darling,  take  rest  while  you  may. 
For  strife  comes  with  manh(;od,  and  waking  with  day. 

Scott. 

THE    SPARTAN  BO 7". 


When  I  the  memoi-y  repeat 

Of  the  heroic  actions  great. 

Which,  in  contempt  of  pain  and  death. 

Were  done  by  men  who  drew  their  breath 


THE   SPARTAN   HOY.  57 

In  ages  past,  I  find  no  deed 

That  can  in  fortitude  exceed 

The  noble  boy,  in  Sparta  bred. 

Who  in  the  temple  ministered. 

By  the  sacrifice  he  stands, 

The  lighted  incense  in  his  hands  ; 

Through  the  smoking  censer's  lid 

Dropped  a  burning  coal,  which  slid 

Into  his  sleeve,  and  passed  in 

Between  the  folds,  e'en  to  the  skin. 

Dire  was  the  pain  which  then  he  proved, 

But  not  for  this  his  sleeve  he  moved, 

Or  would  the  scorching  ember  shake 

Out  from  the  folds,  lest  it  should  make 

Any  confusion,  or  excite 

Disturbance  at  the  sacred  rite  ; 

But  close  he  kept  the  burning  coal, 

Till  it  eat  itself  a  hole 

In  his  flesh.      The  standers-by 

Saw  no  sign,  and  heard  no  cry, 

All  this  he  did  in  noble  scorn, 

And. for  he  was  a  Spartan  born. 

Mary  Lamb. 


58 


NELL  AND   HER  BIRD, 


NELL   AND  HER  BIRD. 


M^ 


OOD-BY,  little  birdie  ! 
Fly  to  the  sk} , 
Singing  and  singing 
A  merry  good-by. 

Tell  all  the  birdies 

Flying  above, 
Nell,  in  the  garden. 

Sends  them  her  love. 


Tell  how  T  found  you. 
Hurt,  in  a  tree  ; 
Then,  when  they're  wounded, 
They'll  come  right  to  me. 

I'd  like  to  go  with  vou. 

If  I  could  fly  ; 
It  must  be  so  beautiful 

Up  in  the  sky  ! 

Why,  little  birdie  — 

Why  don't  you  go  ? 
You  sit  on  my  finger. 

And  shake  your  head.  "■  No  !  " 


NELL  AND   HER  BUiD.      -  59 

He's  oft'!     Oh,  how  quickly 

And  gladly  he  rose  ! 
I  know  he  will  love  me 

Wherever  he  goes. 


I  know  —  for  he  really 
Seemed  trying  to  say  : 

"My  dear  little  Nelly, 
I  can't  go  away." 

But  just  then  some  birdies 

Came  flying  along, 
And  sang,  as  they  neared  us, 

A  chirruping  song ; 

And  he  felt  just  as  I  do 

When  girls  come  and  shout 

Right  under  the  window. 
"  Come,  Nellv  —  come  out ! 


It's  wrong  to  be  sorry  ; 

I  ought  to  be  glad  ; 

But  he's  the  best  birdie 

That  ever  I  had. 

Mrs.  Douge. 


60  THE   SAILOR'S   MOTHER. 


THE    SAILORS    MOTHER. 


One  morning  (raw  it  was  and  wet, 

A  foggy  day  in  winter-time) 
A  woman  on  the  road  I  met, 

Not  old,  thongh  something  past  her  prime  ; 
Majestic  in  her  person,  tall  and  straight, 
And  like  a  Roman  matron's  was  her  mien  and  srait. 


The  ancient  spirit  is  not  dead  ; 

Old  times,  thought  I,  arc  breathing  there  ; 
Proud  was  I  that  my  country  bred 
Such  strength,  a  dignity  so  fair. 
vShe  begged  an  alms,  like  one  in  poor  estate. 
I  looked  at  her  again,  nor  did  my  pride  abate. 


When  from  these  lofty  thoughts  I  woke, 

With  the  first  word  I  had  to  spare 
I  said  to  her,  "Beneath  your  cloak 

What's  that  which  on  your  arms  you  bear.'*' 
She  answered,  soon  as  she  the  question  heard, 
"  A  simple  burden,  sir,  —  a  little  singing-bird." 


THE  SAILOR'S  MOTHER.  61 

And  thus  continuing,  she  said, 

''  I  had  a  son,  who  many  a  day 
Sailed  on  the  seas  :  but  he  is  dead  ; 
In  Denmark  he  was  cast  away  ; 
And  I  have  travelled  very  far,  to  see 
What  clothes  he  might  have  left,  or  other  projDerty. 


"  The  bird  and  cage  they  both  were  his  ; 

'Twas  my  son's  bird  ;  and  neat  and  trim 
He  kept  it :  many  voyages 

His  singing-bird  hath  gone  with  him. 
When  last  he  sailed  he  left  the  bird  behind  ; 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  from  bodings  of  his  mind. 


"  He  to  a  fellow-lodger's  care 

Had  left  it  to  be  watched  and  fed, 
Till  he  came  back  again  ;  and  there 
I  found  it  when  my  son  was  dead  ; 
And  now,  —  God  help  me  for  my  little  wit !  — 
I  trail  it  with  me,  sir !  he  took  so  much  delight  in  it." 

Wordsworth. 


THE 


LITTLE    GIRUS  LAMENT. 


Is  Heaven  a  long  way  off,  mother  ? 

I  watch  through  all  the  day, 
To  sec  my  father  coming  back 

And  meet  him  on  the  way. 

And  when  the  night  comes  on  I  stand 
Where  once  I  used  to  wait, 

To  see  him  coming  from  the  fields 
And  meet  him  at  tlie  gate  ; 


Then  I  used  to  put  my  hand  in  his, 
And  cared  not  more  to  play  ; 

But  I  never  meet  him  coming  now. 
However  long  I  stay. 


THE   LITTLE   GIRL'S   LAMENT.  63 

And  you  tell  me  he's  in  Heaven,  and  far. 

Far  happier  than  we, 
And  loves  us  still  the  same  ;   but  how, 

Dear  mother,  can  that  be  ? 

For  he  never  left  a  single  day 

For  market  or  for  fair, 
But  the  best  of  all  that  father  saw 

He  brought  for  us  to  share. 

He  cared  for  nothing  then  but  us  ; 

I  have  heard  father  say 
That  coming  back  made  worth  his  while 

Sometimes  to  go  away. 

He  used  to  say  he  liked  our  house 

Far  better  than  the  Hall ; 
He  would  not  change  it  for  the  best, 

The  grandest  place  of  all. 

And  if  where  he  is  now,  mother, 

All  is  so  good  and  fair. 
He  would  have  come  back  long  ago 

To  take  us  with  him  there. 

He  never  would  be  missed  from  Heaven  ; 

I  have  heard  father  say 
How  many  angels  God  has  there. 

To  praise  Him  night  and  day  ; 


64  'J'HK    l.ri'TLK    GIRL'S   LAMENT. 

He  never  would  be  missed  in  Heaven. 

From  all  that  blessed  throng. 
And  we  —  oh  !   we  have  missed  him  here 

So  sadlv  and  so  long! 

l^ut  it"  he  came  to  fetch  us.  then 
I  would  hold  his  hand  so  fast, 

1  would  not  let  it  go  again 
Till  all  the  way  was  past. 

He'd  tell  me  all  that  he  has  seen. 

But  I  would  never  say 
How  dull  and  lonely  we  have  been 

Since  he  went  far  away. 

When  you  raised  me  to  the  bed,  mother. 

And  I  kissed  him  on  the  cheek, 
His  cheek  was  pale  and  very  cold, 

And  his  voice  was  low  and  weak. 

And  vet  I  can  rememl)cr  well 
Each  word  that  he  spoke  then, 

For  he  said  I  must  be  a  dear,  good  girl, 
And  we  should  meet  again  ! 

And,  oh  !   but  I  have  tried  since  then 
To  be  good  through  all  the  day  ; 

I've  done  w'hate'er  you  bid  me,  mother, 
Yet  father  stays  away  ! 


THE  MAY  QUEEN.  65 

Is  it  because  God  loves  him  so?  — 

I  know  that  in  His  love 
He  takes  the  good  away  from  earth, 

To  live  with  Him  above  ! 

Oh  that  God  had  not  loved  him  so  ! 

For  then  he  might  have  stayed, 
And  kissed  me  as  he  used  at  nights, 

When  bv  his  knee  I  played. 

Olrthat  he  had  not  been  so  good, 

So  patient,  or  so  kind  ! 
Oh,   had  but  we  been  more  like  him. 

And  not  been  left  behind  ! 

DoKA  Green  WELL. 

THE   MAT  ^UEEN. 

Part  I. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear  ; 
To-morrow'll  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New 

Year  ; 
Of  all  the  glad  New  Year,  mother,  the  maddest,  merriest 

dav  ; 
For  I'm   to   be   Qiieen   o'   the   May,  mother,   I'm    to  be 

Qiieen  a'  the  May. 


^^  '^'iJIi;   -^lAY   QUEEX. 


There's  many  a  black,  black  eye.   they  sa^-.  but  noi 

bright  as  mine  ; 
There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate  and  Carolir 
But  none  so  foir  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land,  thev  s: 
So  I  m   to   be   Q.ueen   o'   the   Mav.    mother,   I'm    t; 
(Jueen  o'  the  May, 

If  you^d.;^  „„,  ,„„  ,„„  ,„,„,   ^^.,,^,,^   ^,^^  ;^^^^    ^^^^.  ^^ 

For  I'm  to  be   Queen   o'   i-li^.   Ar 

queen  o'  tHuly"  -■    '"°"'"-   '"■"   '" 

As  I  a,„K.  up  ,lK.  v,,IU.v.  wl,„u,  tl,i„l<  v„u  sl,„u|,|  I  see 
\c.ster(la\-  to''^"-    ini 


■    """"'"'™"'P^'--<l<"«,lil<e  a  flash  of  light 


THE   MAY   QUEEN.  67 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted  ;   but  I  care  not  what  they  say, 
For  I'm   to  be   Qiieen  o'   the   May,   mother,  I'm  to    be 
Qiieen  o'  the  May. 

They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love  ;  but  that  can  never  be  ; 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  :  what  is  that  to 

me  r 
There's  many  a  bolder  lad'U  woo  me  anv  simimer  day. 
For  I'm  to  be   Qiieen   o'   the  May,   mother.  I'm  to    be 

Qiieen  o'  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 
And  you'll  be  there,  too.  mother,  to  see  me  made  the 

queen ; 
For  the   shepherd  lads  on  everv  side'll    come    from    far 

away. 
And  I'm  to  be  Qiieen  o'  the  May,   mother.   I'm  to  be 

Queen  o'  the  Mav. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven   its  wavy 

bowers. 
And   by    the     meadow-trenches    blow    the    faint    sweet 

cuckoo-flowers. 
And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps 

and  hollows  gray, 
And  I'm  to  be   Queen   o'   the  May.  mother.  I'm   to  be 

Queen  o'  the  May. 


68  THE  xMAY   QUEEN. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go.  mother,  upon  the  mead- 
ow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they 
pass  ; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  wliole  of  the  live- 
long day, 

And  I'm  to  be  Qiieen  o'  the  ^Nlay,  mother,  Tm  to  be 
Qiicen  o'  the  ]May. 


All  the  valle}-,  mother,  '11  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill, 
And    the    rivulet    in   the   flowery    dalc'll    merrily   glance 

and    plav  ; 
For  I'm   to   be   Qiieen   o'    tlie    May.   mother.   I'm    to   be 

Qiieen  o'  the  May. 

So  you   must  wake  and  call   me    early,   call   me   early, 

mother  dear  ; 
To-morrow'U  be  the   hai)picst  time  of  all   the  glad  New 

Year  ; 
To-morrow'll  be  of   all    the  year  the    maddest,   merriest 

day  ; 
For  I'm    to   be   Qiieen   o'    the   May.    mother.    I'm   to   be 

Qiieen  o'  the  May. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


Part  II. 


NEW  YEAR  S  EVE. 


If  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear, 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New  Year  ; 
It  is  the  last  New  Year  that  I  shall  ever  see. 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould,  and  think  no 

more  of  me. 


To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set :  he  set,  and  left  behind 

The  good  Old  Year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace 

of  mind  ; 
And  the   New  Year's   coming  up.    mother,    but   I  shall 

nev'cr  sec 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 


Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers  :  we  had  a  merry 

day  : 
Beneath    the    hawthorn    on    the    green    they    made    me 

Queen  of  May  ; 
And   we   danced   about  the  May-pole   and   in  the  hazel 

copse. 
Till    Charles's    Wain     came    out    above    the    tall    white 

chimney-tops. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN.  71 

There's   not  a   flower  on   all  the   hills :    the   frost  is  on 

the  pane : 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snow-drops  come  again  : 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt,  and  the  sun  come  out  on 

high  : 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 


The  building  rook'll  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm  tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 

And  the  swallow'll  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er 

the  wave. 
But  I   shall    lie   alone,    mother,   within  the    mouldering 

grave. 

Upon    the    chancel    casement,   and    upon   that   grave    of 

mine, 
In  the  early,  early  morning  the  summer  sun'll  shine. 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill. 
When  you  are  warm  asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world 

is  still. 


When    the    flowers    come    again,    mother,    beneath    the 

waning  light 
You'll    never    see    me    more    in  tlic   long  gray   fields   at 

night ; 


72  THE   MAY  QUEEN. 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wood  the  summer  airs  blow- 
cool 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush 
in  the  pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  mv  mother,   just  beneath  the  hawthorn 

shade, 
And   you'll    come    sometimes    and  see  me  where   I   am 

lowly  laid. 
I   shall   not  forget  vou,   mother  ;   I   shall   hear  you  when 

you  pass, 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant 

grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,   but  you'll  forgive  me 

now  ; 
You'll    kiss   me.   my  own    mother,   upon    my   cheek   and 

brow  ;  — 
Nay,  nay.  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  giief  be  wild  ; 
You  sliould  not  fret  for  me,  mother, — you   have  another 

child. 

If  T  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting- 
place  ; 

Though  vou'U  not  see  me.  mother.  I  shall  look  upon 
your  face  ; 


THE   MAY  QUEEN.  73 

Though  I  cannot  speak  a   word,  I   shall   hearken   what 

you  say, 
And  be  often,  often  with  you.   when  you  think  I'm  far 

away. 


Good-night !  good-night !  When  I  have  said  good-night 
for  evermore. 

And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the 
door, 

Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  grow- 
ing green  : 

She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  ever  I  have  been. 

.She'll  find  my  garden  tools  upon  the  granary  floor : 

Let  her  take  'em  :   they  are  hers :    I  shall  never  garden 

more  : 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I 

set 
About  the  parlor  window,  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,   sweet   mother :    call    me  before   the   day   is 

born. 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New  Year  ; 
So,    if  you're   waking,   call    me,   call   me  early,   mother 

dear. 


74  THE   MAY   QUEEN, 

Part  III. 

CONCLUSION. 

I  thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am  ; 

And  in  the  fields  all   round   I   hear  the  bleating  of  the 

lamb. 
How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year ! 
To  die  before  the  snow-drop  came,  and  now  the  violet's 

here. 


Oh,  sweet    is    the    new  violet   that   comes    beneath    the 

skies. 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot 

rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  tlie  llowers  that 

bloAV, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  mc  that  lone  to  eo  ! 


It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed 

sun. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stav  ;  and  vet  His  will  be 

done  ! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  T  find  release  ; 
And  that  good   man.  the  clerg\man.  has  told   me  words 

of  peace. 


THE   MAY  QUEEN.  75 

Oh,  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice,  and  on  his  silver  hair! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me 

there  ! 
Oh,  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart,  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blessed  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my 

bed. 

He  showed  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught  me  all  the 

sin : 
Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will 

let  me  in  : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could 

be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch 

beat. 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning 

meet. 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and   put  your  hand  in 

mine. 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March  morning  I  heard  the  angels  call : 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over 
all; 


76  THE    ^L\Y    QUEEN. 

The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March  morning  I  heard  them  call  my 
soul. 


For,  lying  broad  awake,  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here  : 
With    all    ni}-  strength  I  prayed  for  both,  and  so  I  felt 

resigned. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listened  in  mv  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me —  I  know  not  what 

was  said. 
For  great   delight   and   shuddering   took   hold   of  all    my 

mintl. 
And  up  the  vallev  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 


But  vou  were  sleeping;  and  I  said.  '•  It's  not  for  them  : 
it's  mine." 

And  if  it  comes  three  times.  T  thought.  T  take  it  for  a 
sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window- 
bars. 

Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven,  and  die  among 
tlie  stars. 


THE   MAY   QUEEN.  77 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  neai".     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed   music  went  that  way  my  soul  will   have  to 

go- 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day  ; 

But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I  am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret : 
There's  many  a  worthier  than  I  would  make  him  hapjDy 

yet. 
If  I   had   lived  —  I    cannot   tell  —  I    might  have  been  his 

wife  ; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire 

of  life. 

Oh,  look  !  the   sun  begins  to  rise,  the   heavens  are  in  a 

glow  ; 
He    shines    upon    a    hundred    fields,    and   all   of  them  I 

know. 
And  there   I   move    no   longer  now,  and   there   his   light 

may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

Oh,  sweet  and   strange  it  seems  to  me.  that  ere  this  day 

is  done 
The  voice,  that    now  is    speaking,  may  be   beyond  the 

sun  — 


78  ON  ANOTHER'S   SORROW. 

Forever  and  forever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  ! 
And  what  is  hfe,  that  we  should  moan?  why  make  we 
such  ado  ? 

Forever  and  forever,  all  in  a  blessed  home, 

And   there   to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come  ; 

To    lie   within    the    light    of   God,    as   I   lie   upon   your 

breast. 
And   the  wicked    cease    from    troubling,  and  the  wearv 

are  at  rest. 

Tknnvsgn. 

ON  ANOTHER'S   SORROW. 

Can  I  sec  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too.? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief  .'* 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear. 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  } 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear? 
No  !  no  !  never  can  it  be  I 
Never,  never  can  it  be  ! 


ON  ANOTHER'S   SORROW.  79 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all, 
Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear,  — 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  pitv  in  their  breast? 
And  not  sit  tlie  cradle  near. 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear? 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 
Oh.  no  I  never  can  it  be  ! 
Never,  never  can  it  be  ! 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all ; 
He  becomes  an  Infant  small  ; 
He  becomes  a  Man  of  woe  ; 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  nigh  ; 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear, 
And  thy  ^laker  is  not  near. 

Oh  !  He  gives  to  us  His  joy. 

That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy  ; 

Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone. 

He  doth  sit  bv  us  and  mourn. 

Blake. 


80  TllE   GLE.IXER. 


THE    GLEANER. 

Before  the  bright  sun  rises  over  the  hill, 
111  the  wheat-field  poor  Marv  is  seen. 

Impatient  her  little  blue  apron  to  fill 

With  the  few  scattered  ears  she  can  glean. 

She  never  leaves  oft"  or  runs  out  of  her  place 

To  plav  or  to  idle  and  chat. 
Except,  now  and  then,  just  to  wipe  her  hot  face. 

And  fan  herself  with  her  broad  hat. 

''  Poor  girl  I  hard  at  woik  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
How  tired  and  w  arm  vou  must  be  I 

Why  don't  you  leave  oft"  as  the  others  have  done, 
And  sit  with  them  under  the  tree?" 

■•  Oh.  no  !  for  my  mother  lies  ill  in  her  bed. 

Too  feeble  to  spin  ox  to  knit  : 
And  my  dear  little  brothers  are  crying  for  bread. 

And  vet  we  can't  give  them  a  bit. 

"  Then  could  T  be  merry,  be  idle,  or  play, 

While  they  are  so  hungry  and  ill? 
Oh,  no  !  I  would  rather  work  hard  all  the  day, 

My  little  blue  apron  to  fill." 

JANK    TaVLOK 


THE  CHILDREN   IX  THE   WOOD.  81 


THE    CHILDREN  IN  THE    WOOD. 


Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear, 
These  words  which  I  shall  write  ; 

A  doleful  story  you  shall  hear. 
In  time  brought  forth  to  light. 

A  gentleman  of  good  account 

In  Norfolk  dwelt  of  late, 
Whose  wealth  and  riches  did  surmount 

Most  men  of  his  estate. 

Sore  sick  he  was,  and  like  to  die, 
No  help  his  life  could  save  ; 

His  wife  by  him  as  sick  did  lie, 
And  both  possess  one  grave. 

No  love  between  these  two  was  lost,  — 

Each  was  to  other  kind  ; 
In  love  thev  lived,  in  love  they  died. 

And  left  two  babes  behind  : 

The  one  a  fine  and  pretty  boy, 
Not  passing  three  vears  old  ; 

The  other  a  girl  more  young  than  he, 
And  made  in  beauty's  mould. 


82  THE  rirn.DRT:x  ix  'j'iie  wood. 

The  father  left  his  Httle  son, 

As  plainly  doth  appear, 
When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 

Three  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 
Two  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 

To  be  paid  down  on  marriage-day, 
Which  might  not  be  controlled. 

But  if  the  children  chanced  to  die 
Ere  they  to  age  should  come, 

Their  uncle  should  possess  their  wealth. 
For  so  tiie  will  did  run. 

"Now.  brother,"'  said  the  dying  man. 

''  Look  to  my  children  dear; 
Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friends  else  have  they  here. 

"  To  God  and  \()u  I  do  commend 
My  children  night  and  day  : 

A  little  while  be  sure  we  have 
Within  tliis  world  to  stay. 

"You  must  be  father  and  mother  both. 

And  uncle,  all  in  one  ; 
God  knows  what  will  become  of  them, 

When  I  am  dead  and  sfone." 


With  that  bespake  their  mother  dear, 
"  O  brother  kind,"  quoth  she, 

"  You  are  the  man  must  bring  my  babes 
To  wealth  or  misery  : 


f^l  ;:-J 


"  If  you  do  keep  them  carefully, 
Then  God  will  you  reward  ; 

If  otherwise  you  seem  to  deal, 
God  will  \(HU  deeds  legaid  " 


84  THE  CHILDREX   IN   THE   WOOD. 

With  lips  as  cold  as  any  stone 
They  kissed  the  children  small : 

"  God  bless  you  both,  my  children  dear  I ' 
With  tliat  the  tears  did  fall. 

These  speeches  then  their  brother  spoke 

To  this  sick  couple  there  : 
"The  keeping  of  your  children  dear, 

Sweet  sister,  do  not  fear. 

"  God  never  prosper  me  or  mine, 

Nor  aught  else  that  I  have. 
If  I  do  wrong  your  children  dear, 

When  you  are  laid  in  grave," 

Their  parents  being  dead  and  gone, 
The  children  home  he  takes. 

And  brings  them  both  unto  his  house, 
And  much  of  them  he  makes. 

He  had  not  kept  those  pretty  babes 

A  twelvemonth  and  a  da}', 
When,  for  their  wealtii.  he  did  devise 

To  make  ihcm  both  away. 

He  bargained  with  two  ruihaiis  rude. 

Who  were  of  furious  mood. 
That  they  should  take  the  children  young 

And  slay  them  in  the  wood. 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  WOOD.  85 

He  told  his  wife,  and  all  he  knew, 

He  would  the  children  send 
To  be  brought  up  in  fair  London, 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 

Away  then  went  the  pretty  babes. 

Rejoicing  at  that  tide. 
Rejoicing  with  a  merry  mind 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride. 

They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly. 

As  they  ride  on  the  way, 
To  those  that  should  their  butchers  be, 

And  work  their  lives'  decay  : 

So  that  the  pretty  speech  thev  had 

Made  murderers'  hearts  relent ; 
And  they  that  took  the  deed  to  do 

Full  sore  they  did  repent. 

Yet  one  of  them,  more  hard  of  heart, 

Did  vow  to  do  his  charge. 
Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him 

Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  would  not  agree  thereto, 

So  here  they  fell  at  strife  ; 
With  one  another  they  did  fight 

About  the  children's  life. 


8fi  THE  CHILDREN   IN  THE  WOOD. 

And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood 

Did  slay  the  other  there, 
Within  an  unfrequented  wood. 

While  babes  did  quake  for  fear. 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand. 
When  tears  stood  in  their  eye, 

And  bade  them  come  and  go  with  him, 
And  look  they  did  not  cry. 

And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  thus, 
While  they  for  bread  complain  : 

"  Stay  here,"  quoth  he  ;   "  I'll  bring  ye  bread 
When  I  do  come  again."' 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand. 
Went  wandering  up  and  down  ; 

But  never  more  they  saw  the  man 
Approaching  from  the  town. 

Their  pretty  lips  with  blackberries 
Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed, 

And  when  they  saw  the  darksome  night 
They  sat  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  two  pretty  babes 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief. 
In  one  another's  arms  tliey  died. 

As  babes  waiitinij  relief. 


\v 

''111 

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~^^/s^^>s' 


No  burial  these  pretty  babes 

Of  any  man  receives. 
Till  Robin  Redbreast  painfully 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrath  of  God 

Upon  their  uncle  fell ; 
Vea,  fearful  fiends  did  haunt  his  house, 

His  conscience  felt  a  hell. 


88  THE   CHILDREN  IN  THE  WOOD. 

His  barns  were  fired,  his  goods  consumed, 
His  lands  were  barren  made  ; 

His  cattle  died  within  the  field, 
And  nothing  with  him  stayed. 


And  in  a  voyage  to  Portugal 

Two  of  his  sons  did  die  ; 
And,  to  conclude,  himself  was  brought 

Unto  much  misery. 


He  pawned  and  mortgaged  all  his  lands 
Ere  seven  years  came  about ; 

And  now,  at  length,  this  wicked  act 
By  this  means  did  come  out : 


The  fellow  that  did  take  in  hand 
These  children  for  to  kill 

Was  for  a  robbery  judged  to  die. 
As  was  God's  blessed  will. 


Who  did  confess  the  very  truth 
That  is  herein  expressed  : 

The  uncle  died,  while  he,  for  debt, 
Did  in  a  prison  rest. 


OLD  CPIRISTxMAS.  89 

A    WORD    OF    ADVICE    TO    EXECUTORS. 

All  ye  who  be  executors  made, 

And  overseers  eke, 
Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek, 

Take  vou  example  by  this  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  right ; 
Lest  God,  bv  such  like  misery, 

Your  wicked  deeds  requite. 

OLD    CHRISTMAS. 


Now,  he  who  knows  old  Christmas, 
He  knows  a  carle  of  worth  ; 

For  he  is  as  good  a  fellow 
As  any  upon  the  earth. 

He  comes  warm-cloaked  and  coated 
And  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  : 

And  soon  as  he  comes  a-nigh  the  door 
We  open  and  let  him  in. 


90 


OLD   rillilSTMAS. 


We  know  he  will  not  fail  us. 

So  we  sweep  the  hearth  up  clean  ; 
We  set  for  him  the  old  arm-chair, 

And  a  cushion  whereon  to  lean. 


And  with  sprigs  of  holly  and  ivy 
We  make  the  house  look  gay, 

Just  out  of  old  regard  to  him,  — 
For  'twas  his  ancient  way. 


OLD   CHRISTMAS.  91 

He  comes  with  a  cordial  voice 

That  does  one  good  to  hear, 
He  shakes  one  heartily  by  the  hand, 

As  he  liath  done  many  a  year. 

And  after  the  little  children 

He  asks  in  a  cheerful  tone, 
Jack,  Kate,  and  little  Annie  ; 

He  remembers  them  every  one  ! 

What  a  fine  old  fellow  he  is ! 

With  his  faculties  all  as  clear, 
And  his  heart  as  warm  and  light 

As  a  man  in  his  fortieth  year  ! 

What  a  fine  old  fellow,  in  troth  ! 

No  tone  of  your  griping  elves, 
Who,  with  plenty  of  money  to  spare, 

Think  only  about  themselves. 

Not  he  !  for  he  loveth  the  children, 

And  holiday  begs  for  all  ; 
And  comes  with  his  pockets  full  of  gifts 

For  the  great  ones  and  the  small. 

And  he  tells  us  witty  old  stories, 
And  singeth  with  might  and  main  ; 

And  we  talk  of  the  old  man's  visit 
Till  the  day  that  he  comes  again. 


92  A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

And  all  the  workhouse  children 

He  sets  them  in  a  row, 
And  giveth  them  rare  plum-pudding, 

And  twopence  apiece  also. 

He  must  be  a  rich  old  fellow,  — 
What  money  he  gives  away  ! 

There's  not  a  lord  in  England 
Could  equal  him  any  dav  ! 

Good  luck  unto  old  Christmas, 

And  long  life,  let  us  sing, 
For  he  doth  more  good  unto  the  poor 

Than  many  a  crowned  king  ! 

Mary  Hdwitt. 
A    VISIT  FROM   ST.    NICHOLAS. 


'Twas  the  night  before  Christmas,  wiicn  all  through  the 

house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  c\en  a  mouse  ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  bv  the  chimnc\-  with  care. 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  lie  there  ; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads; 


A  VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS.  93 

And  mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter  nap,  — 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 

Gave  a  lustre  of  midday  to  objects  below  ; 

When  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear 

But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came. 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name  : 

"  Now,  Dasher  !  now,  Dancer  !  now,  Prancer  and  Vixen  ! 

On  !   Comet,  on  !   Cupid,  on  !   Dunder  and  Blixen  1  — 

To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !  " 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 

So  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew. 

With  the  sleigh  full  of  tovs  —  and  St.  Nicholas  too. 

And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 


94  A  VISIT  FROM   ST.  NICHOLAS. 

He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 

And  his  clothes  were  alTtarnished  with  ashes  and  soot» 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 

And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 

His  eyes,  how  they  twinkle  !  his  dimples,  how  merry  I 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry  ; 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 

And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  w hite  as  the  snow. 

The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth. 

And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 

He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly 

That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump  —  a  right  jolly  old  elf; 

And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 

A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 

Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 

He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 

And  filled  all  tlie  stockings  ;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose. 

And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 

He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle. 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle  : 

But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 

"  Happy  Christmas  to  all.  and  to  all  a  good-night  I  " 

C.  C.  Moore. 


LITTLE  ]SLiY.  95 


LITTLE    MAT. 


Have  you  heard  the  waters  singing, 

Little  May, 
Where  the  willows  green  are  bending 

O'er  their  way  ? 
Do  vou  know  how  low  and  sweet, 
O'er  the  pebbles  at  their  feet. 
Are  the  words  the  waves  repeat. 

Night  and  day  ? 

Hav^e  you  heard  the  robins  singing. 

Little  one. 
When  the  rosy  dawn  is  breaking,  — 

When  'tis  done? 
Have  you  heai'd  the  wooing  breeze, 
In  the  blossomed  orchard  trees. 
And  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees 

In  the  sun  ? 

All  the  earth  is  full  of  music. 

Little  May,  — 
Bird,  and  bee,  and  water  singing 

On  its  wav. 


fri:ddie  and  the  chekry-tree. 

Let  their  silver  voices  fall 

On  thy  heart  with  happy  call  : 

"  Praise  the  Lord,  who  loveth  all," 

Night  and  day, 

Little  May. 

Mrs.  Miller, 


o>*=;c 


FREDDIE    AND    THE     CHERRY-TREE. 


REDDIE  saw  some  fine  ripe  cherries 
Hanging  on  a  cherry-tree, 
And  he  said,  '*  Yon  pretty  cherries, 
Will  vou  not  come  down  to  me?" 


''Thank  you,  kindly,"  said  a  cherry  ; 

"  W'c  would  rather  stay  up  here  ; 
If  we  ventured  down  this  morning, 

^'ou  would  eat  us  up,  I  fear." 


One.  the  llnest  of  the  cherries, 
Dangled  from  a  slender  twig. 
"You  are  beautiful,"  said  Freddie, 
'•  Red  and  ripe,  and  oh,  how  big! " 


THE  TREE.  ^"^ 

"  Catch  me,"  said  the  cherry,  ^' catch  me, 

Little  master,  if  you  can."— 
••  1  would  catch  you  soon,"  said  Freddie, 

'•Tf  I  were  a  grown-up  man." 

Freddie  jumped,  and  tried  to  reach  it. 

Standing  high  upon  his  toes ; 
But  the  cherry  bobbed  about. 

And  laughed,  and  tickled  Freddie's  nose. 

"Never  mind,"  said  little  Freddie, 
"  I  shall  have  them  when  it's  right." 

But  a  blackbird  whistled  boldly, 
"  I  shall  eat  them  all  to-night." 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


THE     TREE. 


The  Tree's  early  leaf-buds  were  bursting  their  brown  : 
-Shall  I  take  them  away?"    said   the  Frost,  sweeping 

down. 

"  No,  leave  them  alone 

Till  the  blossoms  have  grown," 

Frayed  the  Tree,  while  he  trembled  from  rootlet  to  crown. 


98  DEATH  OF  COCK  ROBIN  AND  JEXXY  WREX. 

The  Tree  bore  his  blossoms,  and  all  the  birds  sung : 
"  Shall  I  take  them  away?"  said  the  wind,  as  he  swung. 
'•  No,  leave  them  alone 
Till  the  berries  have  grown," 
Said  the  Tree,  while  his  leaflets  quivering  hung. 

The  Tree  bore  his  fruit  in  the  midsummer  glow: 
Said  the  girl,  ''  May  I  gather  thy  berries  now?" — 
"  Yes,  all  thou  canst  see  : 
Take  them  ;   all  are  for  thee," 
Said  the  Tree,  while  he  bent  down  his  laden  boughs  low. 

BjORNSON. 

*o>*;oo 

THE   DEATH  OF    COCK  ROBIN  AND 
JENNY    WREN. 


'Twas  a  cold  autumn  morning  when  Jenny  Wren  died, 

Cock  Robin  sat  by  for  to  see, 
And  when  all  was  over  he  bitterly  cried, 

So  kind  and  so  loving  was  he. 

He  buried  her  under  the  little  moss-heap 

That  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  yew. 
And  by  day  and  by  night  he  sat  near  her  to  weep, 

Till  his  feathers  were  wet  with  the  dew. 


DEATH  OF  COCK  ROBIN  AND  JENNY  WREN.  99 

"  O  Jenny,  I  am  tired  of  lingering  here, 

Through  the  dreary,  dark  days  of  November, 

And  I'm  thinking  of  nothing  but  you,  Jenny  dear, 
And  your  loving,  fond  ways  I  remember. 

"  I  think  how  you  looked  in  your  little  brown  suit, 
When  you  said  that  you'd  always  be  mine  ; 

With  your  fan  in  your  hand,  how  you  glanced  at  the  fruit. 
And  said  you  liked  cherries  and  wine ! 

"  I  think  of  the  sweet,  merry  days  of  the  spring, 

Of  the  nest  that  we  built  both  together, 
Of  the  dear  little  brood  nestled  under  your  wing. 

And  the  joys  of  the  warm  summer  weather." 

And  as  he  lamented,  the  rain  did  down  pour 
Till  his  body  was  wet  through  and  through  ; 

And  he  sang,  "  Dearest  Jenny,  my  sorrows  are  o'er, 
And  I'm  coming,  my  true  love,  to  you." 

So  he  gathered  some  brown  leaves  to  lay  by  her  side, 

And  to  pillow  his  poor,  weary  head, 
And  sang,  '■'Jennv,  my  lost  one,  my  fond  one,  my  bride," 

Till  the  gallant  Cock  Robin  fell  dead. 

Gekua  Fay. 


100  RANGER. 

RANGER. 


A  little  boat  in  a  cave, 

And  a  child  there  fast  asleep, 
Floating  out  on  a  wave, 

Out  to  the  perilous  deep,  — 
Out  to  the  living  waters. 

That  brightly  dance  and  gleam, 
And  dart  their  foam  about  him, 

To  wake  him  from  his  dream. 

He  rubs  his  pretty  eyes. 

He  shakes  his  curly  head. 
And  says,  with  great  surprise, 

"  Why,  I'm  not  asleep  in  bed  I  " 
The  boat  is  rising  and  sinking 

Over  the  sailors'  graves  ; 
And  he  laughs  out.  ''  Isn't  it  nice, 

Playing  see-saw  with  the  waves  .^" 

Alas!   he  little  thinks 

Of  the  grief  <.n\  the  far-oH"  sands. 
Where  his  mother  trembles  and  shrinks. 

And  his  sister  wrings  her  hands  ; 
Watching  in  speechless  terror 

The  boat  and  the  flaxen  head. 
Is  there  no  hope  of  succor.^ 

Must  they  see  him  drowned  or  dead."* 


^4; 


They  see  him  living  now. 
Living  and  jumping  about ; 
p   He  stands  on  the  giddy  prow. 

With  a  merry  laugh  and  shout. 
Oh  !   spare  him  !   spare  him  I   spare  him 
Spare  him.  thou  cruel  deep  ! 
-  The  child  is  swept  from  the  prow. 

And  the  wild  waves  dance  and  leap. 


1 02  RAXGER. 


They  run  to  the  edge  of  the  shore, 

They  stretch  out  their  arms  to  him  ; 
Knee-deep  they  wade,  and  more  ; 

But  alas  !  they  cannot  swim. 
Their  pretty,  pretty  darHng  ! 

His  little  hat  floats  by  ; 
They  see  his  frightened  face  ; 

They  hear  his  drowning  cry. 

Something  warm  and  strong 

Dashes  before  them  then. 
Hairy  and  curly  and  strong. 

And  brave  as  a  dozen  men  ; 
Bounding,  panting,  gasping, 

Rushing  straight  as  a  dart ; 
Rcadv  to  die  in  the  cause, — 

A  dog  with  a  loyal  heart. 

He  fights  with  the  lighting  sea, 

He  grandlv  wins  his  prize  ! 
Mother  !   he  brings  it  thee 

With  triumph  in  his  eyes. 
He  brings  it  tlice.  O  mother! 

His  burden  pretty  and  pale  ; 
He  lays  it  down  at  thy  feet, 

And  wags  his  honest  old  tail. 


KANGEK'S   GRAVE.  103 

O  dog,  SO  faithful  and  bold  ! 

O  dog,  so  tender  and  true  ! 
You  shall  wear  a  collar  of  gold,  — 

And  a  crown,  if  you  like  it,  too  ; 
O  Ranger !  in  love  and  honor 

Your  name  shall  be  handed  down  ; 
And  children's  hearts  shall  beat 

At  the  tale  of  your  renown. 

Poems  for  a  Child. 

RANGERS    GRAVE. 


He's  dead  and  gone  !   he's  dead  and  gone ! 
And  the  lime-tree  branches  wave, 
And  the  daisy  blows, 
And  the  green  grass  grows, 
Upon  his  grave. 


He's  dead  and  gone  !  he's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  he  sleeps  by  the  flowering  lime. 
Where  he  loved  to  lie. 
When  the  sun  was  high, 
In  summer  time. 


We'\e  laid  him  tlicic.  \\hcie  the 
blessed  an 
Disports  with  the  lovely  light. 
And  raineth  showers 
i™  7       i  Of  those  sweet  flowers, 

-"JJiVj^,  '2  So  silver  white. 

Where  tlie  blackbird  sings,  and  the  wild 
bee's  wings 
IMake  music  all  day  long, 
And  the  cricket  at  night 
(A  duskv  sprite  1) 

Takes  up  the  song. 


LOCHINVAR.  105 

He  loved  to  lie  where  his  wakeful  eye 
Could  keep  me  still  in  sight, 
Whence  a  word  or  a  sign, 
Or  a  look  of  mine, 

Brought  him  like  light. 

Nor  word  nor  sign,  nor  look  of  mine, 
From  under  the  lime-tree  bough. 
With  bark  and  bound. 
And  frolic  round, 

Shall  bring  him  now. 

But  he  taketh  his  rest,  where  he  loved  best 
In  the  days  of  his  life  to  be. 
And  that  place  will  not 
Be  a  common  spot 
Of  earth  to  me. 


Mrs.  Southev. 


LOCHINVAR. 


Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west ; 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best. 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none  ; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 


106  LOCHINVAE. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 

But,  ere  he  aHghted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  : 

For  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  tlie  Netherby  hall, 
Among  bridesmen  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers  and  all  : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word) , 
"  Oh,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  l)ridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar?" 

"I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied  ;  — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  ; 
And  now  I  am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  arc  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  go])let ;   the  knight  took  it  up : 
He  quailed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  lilush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh. 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could  bar.  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure  !  "  said  vounsf  Lochinvar. 


So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace  ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 
And    the    bridegroom    stood    dangling    his    bonnet    and 

plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  voung  Lochinvar." 


108  THE   BATTLE    OF   BLENHEIM. 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  tlie  hall  door  and  the  charger  stood 

near  ; 
So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
"  She  is  won  I  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur  I 
They'll    have    fleet    steeds    that    follow ! "    quoth   young 

Loch  invar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Nethcrby  clan  ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  IMusgraves,  they  rode  and  they 

ran  ; 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee  ; 
But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 
vSo  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar.^ 

Scott. 

THE   BATTLE    OF  BLENHEIM, 


It  was  a  summer's  evening. 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done. 
And  he  before  his  cottage  door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  orrandchild  Wilhelmine. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM.  109 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

Roll  something  large  and  round, 
Which  he,  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found. 
He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found. 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy. 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

And,  with  a  natural  sigh, 
''  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,"   said  he, 
"  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory  ! 

"  I  find  them  in  the  garden. 

For  there's  many  here  about ; 
And  often. when  I  go  to  plough. 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  said  he, 
"  Were  slain  in  that  great  victorv  !  " 

"  Now,  tell  us  wdiat  'twas  all  about," 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries  ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eves  ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war. 
And  w'hat  they  killed  each  other  for." 


"  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  killed  each  othcM-  for 

I  could  not  well  niake  out. 
But  everybody  said,"  nuoth  he, 
''  That  'twas  a  famous  victory  ! 


THE   BATTLE   OF  BLENHEIM.  Ill 

"  Mv  fiither  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  : 
They  burned  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  ; 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

"  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide  ; 
And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  new-born  baby  died. 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

"  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun. 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victorv. 

''  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  won, 

And  oiu"  good  Prince  Eugene."  — 
"  Whv,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  !  " 

Said  little  Wilhelmine. 
"  Nay,  nay,  my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"  It  was  a  famous  victory  ! 


112  THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

"  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win,"  — 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  hist?  " 
Qiioth  httle  Peterkin. 

"  ^Vhy,  that  I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 

"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory  !  " 


SOCTHEV. 


THE   SOLDIERS  DREAM. 


Our  bugles  sang  truce — for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered. 
The  weary  to  sleep  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  mv  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  tlie  battle-field's  dreadful  array, 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track  : 

'Twas  autumn,  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  h(;nie  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 


Tim   BURIAL   OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE.  113 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain  goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore, 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart, 

"  Stay,  stay  with  us,  —  rest,  thou  art  weary  and  worn  ;  " 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  ; 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  aw^ay. 

Campbell. 

oOitHo* 


T//£  BURIAL    OF  SIR    JOHN  MOORE. 


Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note. 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hiu'ried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 


114 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOirN'  MOORE. 


We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  strugghng  moonbeams'  mistv  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him  ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


THE   BURIAL   OF   SIR  JOHN  MOORE.  115 

Few  and  short  were  the  praj^ers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  ' 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed. 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  s:rave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done. 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Wolfe. 


116  OLD   IKOXSlDEis. 


OLD   IROXSIDES. 


Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar  ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 


Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  ])lood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood. 

And  wa\"es  were  white  below. 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victors  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  ;  — 
The  harpies  of  tiic  shore  shall  pluck 

The  cajrle  of  the  sea  I 


Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 
Should  sink  beneath  the  wave  ; 

Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 


fc 


Nail  to  thp  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 

And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 

Holmes. 


118  SWEET  HOME. 


SWEET   HOME. 


'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home  ! 
A  charm  from  the  skies  seems  to  hallow  us  here, 
Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  else- 
where. 

Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home  ! 


An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain! 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ! 
The  birds  singing  gayly  that  came  at  my  call :  — 
Oh,  give  me  sweet  peace  of  mind,  dearer  than  all  I 

Home,  home,  sweet  home  ! 

There's  no  place  like  home ! 


Paynk. 


THE   TKAVELLEKS   RETURN.  1113 


THE    TRAVELLER'S  RETURN. 


Sweet  to  the  morning  traveller 

The  song  amid  the  sky, 
Where,  twinkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  skylark  soars  on  high. 

And  cheering  to  the  traveller 
The  gales  that  round  him  play. 

When  faint  and  heavily  he  drags 
Along  his  noontide  way. 

And  when  beneath  the  unclouded  sun 

Full  wearily  toils  lie. 
The  flowing  water  makes  to  him 

A  soothing  melody. 

And  when  the  evening  light  decays, 

And  all  is  calm  around. 
There  is  sweet  music  to  his  ear 

In  the  distant  sheep-bell's  sound. 

But,  oh  !  of  all  delightful  sounds 

Of  evening  or  of  morn, 
The  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  love 

That  welcomes  his  return. 


SOUTIIEV. 


120  THE   HOMES   OF  EX(iLANI). 


THE   HOMES   OF  ENGLAND. 


The  stately  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  beautiful  they  stand, 
Amidst  their  tall,  ancestral  trees, 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land  ! 
The  deer  across  their  greens\\ard  boiuid. 

Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam. 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  ! 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  loye 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light ! 
There  woman's  yoice  flows  forth  in  song. 

Or  childish  tale  Is  told, 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England  ! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours! 


THE    HOMES    OF   ENGLAND.  121 

Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church  bells'  chime 
Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn  ; 

All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time, 
Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 


The  cottage  Homes  of  England  ! 

By  thousands  on  her  plains 
They're  smiling  o'er  the  silv'ry  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet  fanes. 
Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep, 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves  ; 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  their  eaves. 


The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  ! 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall, 
Mav  hearts  of  native  proof  be  reared 

To  guard  each  hallowed  wall  ! 
And  green  forever  be  the  groves. 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves 

Its  country  and  its  God  ! 

Mrs.  Hemans. 


A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 

Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 

To  1"!  iw  us  1  i\r  til 


"^^'i^'^^taHft.. 


Duld  cross  Lochgylc, 


This  dark  and  stormy  water.'"  — 
Oh,  I  am  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this.  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 


LORD   ULLIN'S  DAUGIITEK.  123 

"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 

Three  days  we've  fled  together ; 
For,  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 

My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride  ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover. 
Then  who  would  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover?" 

Out  spoke  the  hardv  island  wight, 
•'I'll  go,  my  chief — I'm  ready:  — 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  ladv  ; 

"  And  by  my  word,  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So,  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferrv." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace. 

The  Wflter-wraith  was  shrieking, 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind. 

And  as  tho  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men. 

Their  tramping  sounded  nearer. 


124  LOlll)   ULLIN'S  DAUGIITEK. 

"  Oh,  haste  thee,  haste  !  "   the  hxdy  cries  ; 

'•  Though  tempests  I'ound  us  gather  ; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 

But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her,  — 
When,  oh  !  too  strong  for  human  hand. 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing  ; 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore.  — 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover  : 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back  !   come  back  I  "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  storm}'  water  ;    . 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  !  —  O  my  daughter  !  " 

'Twas  vain  :   the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing ; 

The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Campbell 


TU   MY    MOTHER.  125 


TO   Mr  MOTHER. 


And  canst  thou,  mother,  for  a  moment  think 
That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
Its  blanching  honors  on  thy  weary  head, 

Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink.^ 

Sooner  the  sun  from  his  bright  sphere  shall  sink, 
Than  we  ungrateful  leave  thee  in  that  day. 
To  pine  in  solitude  thv  life  away, 

Or  shun  thee  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 

Banish  the  thought !  —  where'er  our  steps  may  roam, 
O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree, 
.Still  will  fond  memorv  point  our  hearts  to  thee, 

And  paint  the  pleasures  of  thv  peaceful  home  ; 

While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage, 

And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 

KiRKE  White. 


126 


TIIE  THEEE  FRIENDS. 


THE    THREE   FRIENDS. 


Three  \oiuig  girls  in  friendship  met, 
Mar}',  Martha,  Margaret. 


Margaret  was  tall  and  fair, 
Martha  shorter  bv  a  hair  ; 


THE  THREE  FRIEXDS.  127 

If  the  first  excelled  in  feature, 

The  other's  grace  and  ease  were  greater ; 

Mary,  though  to  rival  loth, 

In  their  best  gifts  equalled  both. 

They  a  due  proportion  kept ; 

Martha  mourned  if  Margaret  wept ; 

Margaret  joyed  when  any  good 

She  of  Martha  understood  ; 

And  in  sympathy  for  either 

Mary  was  outdone  by  neither. 

Thus  far,  for  a  happy  space. 
All  three  ran  an  even  race, 
A  most  constant  friendship  proving, 
Equally  beloved  and  loving  ; 
All  their  wishes,  joys,  the  same  ; 
.  Sisters  only  not  in  name. 

Charles  Lamb. 


128 


ABOU  EEX  ADHEM  AND  THE  ANGEE. 


AbouBenAdhem  (may  his  f.-JK    • 

Awo,<eo„eni,„u;o,«;:xt:;::':r" 

Am!  Siuv,  within  tlie  moonli^l,;  '    ""' 

^_f;n«uHcMi.<e,ui;°:;t  :'^ '•-"'• 

p"  ""f  "'"'"g  i»  "  book  of  <,„,< 
E.xcetd,„g  peace  l,a<I  n,ado  13e,r  ^  M         , 
And  to  the  Presence  in    I  ^'"  ''°'''' 

f  <>-'.>>  a, ookn,.de„,^;^::™™-:;''^'-'. 

Answered    "  Ti,,>  ^^^^ecaccoid 

"Andi;;;i„e'^^^er:::,r,r--'-'ovetheLo,,. 

Replied  the  an.el.      m"     j!  ,  "''•■•■'■' "°' »•" 

"'■■^--.„„e,.,twthi:i:z:::r^- 

i^t:;:?^!::':;;;:::-"^""'-  Thene.tni,ht 
Ancuho„;d'h':,eT::o"'";™''"'"  "»"'"• ' 

A"'^!o:BenAdhe^.     t™7:;,e^^^^^^^^^^ 


Leigh  Hunt. 


THE  H.\UNTED   SPRING.  129 


THE  HAUNTED   SPRING. 


Gayly  through  the  mountain  glen 

The  hunter's  horn  did  ring, 
As  the  milk-white  doe 
Escaped  his  bow, 

Down  h\  the  haunted  spring. 
In  vain  his  silver  horn  he  wound. — 

'Twas  echo  answering  back  ; 
For  neither  groom  nor  baying  hoimd 

Was  on  the  hunter's  track  : 
In  vain  he  sought  the  milk-white  doe 
That  made  him  strav  and  'scaped  his  bow, 
For,  save  himself,  no  living  thing 
Was  by  the  silent  haunted  spring. 

The  purple  heath-bells,  blooming  fair, 
Their  fragrance  round  did  fling, 
As  the  hunter  lay, 
At  close  of  day, 
Down  by  the  haunted  spring. 
A  lady  fair,  in  robe  of  white, 
To  greet  the  hunter  came  ; 
She  kissed  a  cup  with  jewels  bright, 
And  pledged  him  by  his  name. 


130 


THE   HAUNTED   SPRING. 


"O  lady  fair,"  the  hunter  cried, 
"  Be  thou  mv  love,  mv  blooming 

bride,  — 
A  bride  that  well  might  grace  a  king  I 
Fair  lady  of  the  haunted  sj^ring." 


V  3A^.*, 


In  tlie  fountain  clear  she  stooped, 
And  forth  she  drew  a  ring ; 
And  that  loved  knight 
His  faith  did  plight 
Down  by  the  haunted  spring. 


A  FAIRY'S    SONG.  131 

But  since  that  day  his  chase  did  stray, 

The  hunter  ne'er  was  seen, 
And  legends  tell  he  now  doth  dwell 

Within  the  hills  so  green  ; 

But  still  the  milk-white  doe  appears. 

And  wakes  the  peasants'  evening  fears, 

While  distant  bugles  faintly  ring 

Around  the  lonely  haunted  spring. 

Lover. 


A   FAIRY'S   SONG. 


Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Through  bush,  through  briar, 
Over  park,  over  pale. 

Through  flood,  through  fire, 
I  do  wander  everywhere. 
Swifter  than  the  moon's  sphere  ; 
And  I  serve  the  Fairy  Qiieen, 
To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  grcen. 
The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be  ; 
In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see,  — 
These  be  rubies,  fairy  favors, 
In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 
I  must  go  seek  some  dew-drops  here, 
And  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear. 

Shakespeare. 


132  NOSE  AND  EYES. 


NOSE  AND  ETES. 


Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose ; 

The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong ; 
The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows. 

To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  the  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning; 

While  Chief-justice  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  fanied  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

"In  behalf  of  the  Nose,  it  will  quickly  appear. 

And  your  lords]]i[),"  he  said,  '"■  will  undoubtetlly  find. 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear,  — 
Which  amounts  to  possession  time  out  of  mind." 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court,  — 

"  Your  lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is ;  in  short, 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

"Again,  would  your  lordshij)  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happened,  and  may  be  again) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 

Pray  who  would  or  who  could  wear  spectacles  then } 


NOSE   AND  EYES,  133 

"  On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn. 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them." 

Then,  shifting  his  side,  as  a  lawyer  knows  how. 
He  pleaded  again  in  hehalf  of  the  Eyes  ; 

But  what  were  his  arguments  fe\v  people  know. 
For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave,  solemn  tone, 
Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  btit^  — 

That  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 
By  daylight  or  candle-light.  Eyes  should  be  shut. 

COWPER. 


134  THE    WIXU    IN   A   ITIOLIC. 


THE    WIND   IN  A   FROIIC. 


The  wind  one  morning  sprang  up  from  sleep. 

Saying,  ''  Now  for  a  frolic  !   now  for  a  leap  ! 

Now  for  a  madcap  galloping  chase  ! 

I'll  make  a  commotion  in  every  place  !  " 

So  it  swept  witli  a  bustle  right  through  a  great  town, 

Creaking  the  signs,  and  scattering  down 

Shutters,  and  whisking,  with  merciless  squalls, 

Old  women's  bonnets  and  gingerbread  stalls. 

There  never  was  heard  a  much  lustier  shout. 

As  the  apples  and  oranges  tumbled  about ; 

And  the  urchins,  that  stand  with  their  thievish  eyes 

Forever  on  watch,  ran  off  each  with  a  prize. 

Then     away    to    the     (iclds     it    went    Itlustering    and 
humming, 
And  the  cattle  all  wondered  whatc\cr  was  coming. 
It  plucked  by  their  tails  the  grave,  matronly  cows, 
And  tossed  the  colts'  manes  all  about  their  brows, 
Till,  oflcnded  at  such  a  familiar  salute. 
They  all  turned  their  backs  and  stood  silently  mute. 
So  on  it  went,  capering  and  playing  its  pranks  ; 
Whistling  with  reeds  on  the  broad  river  banks  ; 


THE  WIND  IN  A  FROLIC.  135 

Puffing  the  birds,  as  they  sat  on  the  spray, 

Or  the  traveller  grave  on  the  king's  highway. 

It  was  not  too  nice  to  bustle  the  bags 

Of  the  beggar,  and  flutter  his  dirty  rags. 

'Twas  so  bold  that  it  feared  not  to  play  its  joke 

With  the  doctor's  wig,  and  the  gentleman's  cloak. 

Through  the  forest  it  roared,  and  cried  gayly,  "  Now, 

You  sturdy  old  oaks,  I'll  make  you  bow  !  " 

And  it  made  them  bow  without  more  ado. 

Or  it  cracked  their  great  branches  through  and  through. 

Then  it  rushed  like  a  monster  o'er  cottage  and  farm, 
Striking  their  inmates  with  sudden  alarm  ; 
And  they  ran  out  like  bees  in  a  midsummer  swarm. 
There  were  dames  with  their   kerchiefs   tied   over   their 

caps. 
To  see  if  their  poultry  were  free  from  mishaps  ; 
The  turkeys  they  gobbled,  the  geese  screamed  aloud, 
And  the  hens  crept  to  roost  in  a  terrified  crowd  ; 
There  was  rearing  of  ladders,  and  logs  laying  on, 
Where  the  thatch  from  the  roof  threatened   soon   to   be 
gone. 

But  the  wind  had  passed  on,  and  had  met  in  a  lane 
With  a  school-boy,  who  panted  and  struggled  in  vain, 
For  it  tossed  him,  and  twirled  him,  tlicn  passed,  and  he 

stood 
With  his  hat  in  a  pool,  and  his  shoe  in  the  mud. 

William  Ilowrrr. 


136  THE   IXCIICAPE    ROCK. 


777^   INCH  CAPE  ROCK. 


No  stir  in  tlie  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea : 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be  ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
So  little  thev  rose,  so  little  thev  fell. 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Abcrbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  runsr. 


When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swel 
The  mariners  hoard  the  warning  bell  ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock. 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 


THE   INCHCAPE  ROCK.  137 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  round, 

And  there  was  joyaunce  in  their  sound. 


The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck. 
And  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  darker  speck. 


He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring. 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess,  — 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 


His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float : 
Qiiotli  he,  "■  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 


The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go  ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 


Down  sank  the  bell  \\  ith  a  gurL;lin;j,'  sound, 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around  ;  • 

Qiioth   Sir   Ralph,    ''The   next   who  comes  to 

the  Rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away, 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day  ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store. 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 


THE   INCHCAPE   ROCK.  139 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky  ' 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high  ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand  ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Qiioth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 


''  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar.^  — 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock  :  — 
•'  O  Christ !   it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  !  " 

vSir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair. 
And  beat  his  breast  in  his  despair  ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
And  the  ship  sinks  down  beneath  the  tide. 

SOUTHEV 


140  THE  THREE  BELLS. 


THE    THREE  BELLS. 


Beneatli  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 

Dear  God  !  was  that  thy  answer 
From  the  horror  roimd  about.'' 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 
"  Ho  !   ship  ahoy  !  "   its  cry  ; 

"  Our  stout  Three  Bells  of  Glasgow 
Shall  lay  till  daylight  by  !  " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowl}', 
Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 

Tossed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights. 
The  lights  of  the  Three  Bells  \ 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 
Man  answered  back  to  man. 

While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 
The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran  ; 


THE  THREE   HELLS. 


141 


And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 
Sent  clown  his  liopeful  cry  ; 

"  Take  heart !    Hold  on  !  "   he  shouted, 
''  The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by  I  " 


i^^v^R. 


All  night  across  the  waters 

The  tossing  lights  shone  clear ; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer, 


142  THE   THREE   BELLS. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under,  _ 
All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 

Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever. 

In  grateful  memor}^  sail  ! 
Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 

Above  the  wave  and  gale  ! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal. 
Repeat  the  Master's  cr}'-, 

As  tossing  through  our  darkness 
The  lights  of  God  draw  nisfh  ! 

Whittier. 


A,  B,  C.  143 


A,  B,   C. 


By  Alpine  lake,  'neath  shady  rock, 
The  herd-boy  knelt  beside  his  flock. 
And  softly  told,  with  pious  air, 
His  alphabet  as  evening  prayer. 

Unseen,  his  pastor  lingered  near : 

"My  child,  what  means  the  sound  I  hear?"  — 

"May  I  not  in  the  worship  share. 

And  raise  to  Heaven  my  evening  prayer? 

"  Where'er  the  hills  and  valleys  blend, 
The  sovmds  of  praver  and  praise  ascend."  — 
"My  child,  a  prayer  vours  cannot  be -• 
You've  only  said  your  A,  B,  C." 

"  I  have  no  better  way  to  pray, — 

All  that  I  know  to  God  I  say  : 

I  tell  the  letters  on  mv  knees  ; 

He  makes  the  words  himself  to  please." 

Posies  for  Children. 


CHILD   AND    THE   ANGELS. 


The  Sabbath's  sun  was  setting  low, 
Amidst  the  clouds  at  even  ; 

"  Our  Father."    breathed    a   voice   be- 
low,— 
"  Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven." 


Beyond  the  eartli,  beyond  the  clouds, 
Those  infant  words  were  given  ; 

''  Our  Fatlicr,"  angels  sang  aloud  — 
"Father,  who  art  in  heaven." 


Thy  kingdom  come,"  still  from  the  ground. 
That  cliildHke  voice  did  pray  ; 
Thy  kingdom  come,"  God's  hosts  resound, 
Far  up  tlic  starry  way. 


LORD,  TEACH  A   LITTLE   CHILD.  145 

"  Thy  will  be  done,"  with  little  tongue, 

That  lisping  love  implores  ; 
"  Thy  will  be  done,"  the  angelic  throng 

Sing  from  the  heavenly  shores. 

"  Forever,"  still  those  lips  repeat 

Their  closing  evening  prayer  ; 
"  Forever,"  floats  in  music  sweet, 

High  midst  the  angels  there. 


C.  Swain. 


o>a>ic 


LORD,    TEACH  A   LITTLE    CHILD. 

L 

Lord,  teach  a  little  child  to  pray, 
And,  oh,  accept  my  prayer. 

Thou  hearest  all  the  words  I  say, 
For  Thou  art  everywhere. 

A  little  sparrow  cannot  fall 
Unnoticed,  Lord,  by  Thee  ; 

And  though  I  am  so  young  and  small, 
Thou  carest  still  for  me. 

Teach  me  to  do  whate'er  is  right. 

And  when  I  sin,  forgive  ; 
And  make  it  still  my  chief  delight 

To  love  Thee  while  I  live. 


146  SLEEP,  BABY,  SLEEP. 


SLEEP.   BABY.    SLEEP. 


Sleep,  baby,  §leep. !  , 

Thy  father  watcnes  the  sliecp  ;  y 

Thy  mother  is  sliaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  comes  a  little  dream  on  thee. 
.Sleep,  babv,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

The  large  stars  are  the  sheep  ; 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  J[  guess  ; 
And  the  gentle  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep  ! 

Our  Saviour  loves  His  sheep  : 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  high. 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep ! 

From  the  German. 


TILE  LITTLE  DREAMER. 


147 


THE  LITTLE   DREAMER. 


A  little  boy  was  dreaming, 

Upon  his  nurse's  lap, 
That  the  pins  fell  out  of  all  the  stars, 
And  the  stars  fell  into  his  cap. 

So,  when  his  dream  was  over. 

What  should  that  little  boy  do .? 
Why,  he  went  and  looked  inside  his  cap, 

And  found  it  wasn't  true. 

Nursery  Nonsense. 


148  THE   L1TT1J-:   HKOTHEK. 


THE  LITTLE  BROTHER. 


Little  brother  in  a  cot, 

Baby,  bab}- ! 
Shall  he  have  a  pleasant  lot  ?  — 

Maybe,  maybe  ! 

Little  brother  in  a  nap. 

Baby,  baby  ! 
Bless  his  tiny  little  cap, 

Noise  far  away  be  ! 

With  a  rattle  in  his  hand. 

Baby,  baby  ! 
Dreaming,  —  who  can  understand 

Dreams  like  this,  what  they  be? 

When  he  wakes,  kiss  him  twice. 

Then  talk  and  gav  be  ; 
Little  cheeks,  soft  and  nice, 

Baby,  baby  ! 

Lu.LU'UT  Levee. 


COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO.  149 


COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO. 


A  little  boy  got  out  of  bed,  — 

'Twas  only  six  o'clock,  — 
And  out  of  window  poked  his  head, 

And  spied  a  crowing  cock. 

The  little  boy  said,  "  Mr.  Bird, 

Pray  tell  me  who  are  you } " 
And  all  the  answer  that  he  heard 

Was,  "  Cock-a-doodle-do  !  " 

"  What  would  you  think,  if  you  were  me," 

He  said,  "  and  I  were  you.^" 
But  still  that  bird  provokingly 

Cried,  "  Cock-a-doodle-do  !  " 

"  How  many  times,  you  stupid  head. 

Goes  three  in  twenty-two  ?  " 
That  old  bird  winked  one  eye,  and  said 

Just  "  Cock-a-doodle-do  !  " 

He  slammed  the  window  down  again, 

When  up  that  old  bird  flew  ; 
And,  pecking  at  the  window-pane, 

Cried,  "  Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doodle-do  !  " 

Nursery  Nonsense. 


Dear  Grandma,  I  will  try  to  write 

A  very  little  letter  : 
If  I  don't  spell  the  words  all  right, 

Why,  next  time  I'll  do  better. 


My  little  rabbit  is  alive. 

Anil  likes  his  milk  and  clover; 
He  likes  to  see  mc  very  much. 

But  is  afraid  of  Rover. 


A  LITTLE   BKOWN  BIRD.  151 

I've  got  a  dove,  as  white  as  snow, 

I  call  her  '^  Polly  Feather  ;  " 
She  flies  and  hops  about  the  yard 

In  every  kind  of  weather. 

I  think  she  likes  to  see  it  rain, 
For  then  she  smooths  her  jacket ; 

And  seems  to  be  so  proud  and  vain, 
The  turkeys  make  a  racket. 

The  hens  are  picking  oft'  the  grass 

And  singing  very  loudly  ; 
While  our  old  peacock  struts  about 

And  shows  his  colors  proudly. 

I  guess  I'll  close  my  letter  now, 

I've  nothing  more  to  tell ; 
Please  answer  soon,  and  come  to  see 

Your  loving  little  Nell ! 

Wisconsin  Farmer. 

A   LITTLE  BROWN  BIRD. 


A  little  brown  bird  sat  on  a  stone  ; 

The  sun  shone  thereon,  but  he  was  alone. 
"  O  pretty  bird,  do  vou  not  weary 

Of  this  gay  summer  so  long  and  dreary.''" 


152  EGGS  AND  BIRDS. 

The  little  bird  opened  his  bright  black  eyes, 
And  looked  at  me  with  great  surprise  ; 

Then  his  joyous  song  broke  forth,  to  say, 
"  Weary  of  what?     I  can  sing  all  dav." 

Posiiis  FOR  Children. 

»OJ«««>0 


EGGS  AXD  BIRDS. 


"  Where  is  the  little  lark's  nest. 
My  father  showed  to  me  ? 

And  where  the  pretty  lark's  eggs  ? " 
Said  master  Lori  Lee. 

At  last  he  found  the  lark's  nest, 
But  eggs  were  none  to  see. 


"Why  are  you  looking  down  there.'*" 
Sang  two  young  larks  on  high  ; 

"  We've  broke  the  shells  that  he"ld  us, 
And  found  a  nest  on  high." 

And  the  happy  birds  went  singing 
Far  up  the  morning  sky. 

LiLLiruT  Levee. 


LITTLE  BIRDIE.  153 


LITTLE  BIRDIE. 


What  does  little  birdie  say, 
In  her  nest,  at  peep  of  day? 
"•  Let  me  fly,"  says  little  birdie, 

''  Mother,  let  me  fly  away."  — 
"  Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger." 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 

Then  she  flies  away. 


What  does  little  baby  say. 
In  her  bed,  at  peep  of  day.'' 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

"  Let  me  rise  and  fly  away."  — 
"  Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
•    Baby,  too,  shall  fly  away." 

Tennyson. 


154 


THE   TURTLE-DOVE'S  NEST. 


THE    TURTLE   DOVE'S  NEST 


ERY  high  in  the  pine  tree 

The  httle  turtle-dove 
Made  a  pretty  httle  nursery, 

To  please  her  little  love. 
She  was  gentle,  she  was  soft, 

And  her  large  tlark  e}e 
Often  turned  to  her  mate, 

Who  was  sitting  close  by. 

"  Coo,"  said  the  turtle-dove  ; 

"  Coo,"  said  she. 
'•  Oh,  I  love  thee,"  said  the  turtle-dove  ; 

••  And  /  love  thee.'' 
In  the  long  shady  branches 
Of  the  dark  pine  tree, 
How  happy  were  the  doves 
In  their  little  nursery! 


Tiic  young  turtle-doves 

Never  quarrelled  in  the  nest, 

For  they  dearly  loved  each  other. 

Though  they  loved  their  mother  best ; 


DAME   DUCK'S   FIEST   LECTURE.  155 

"  Coo,"  said  the  little  doves  ; 

"  Coo,"  said  she. 
And  they  played  together  kindly 

In  the  dark  pine  tree. 

In  this  nursery  of  yours, 

Little  sister,  little  brother, 
Like  the  turtle-dove's  nest  — 

Do  you  love  one  another.'' 
Are  you  kind,  are  you  gentle. 

As  children  ought  to  be .'' 
Then  the  happiest  of  nests 

Is  your  own  nui"sery. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 


o^^c 


DAME    DUCK'S    EIRST  LECTURE    ON 
EDUCATION. 


Old  Mother  Duck  has  hatched  a  brood 
Of  ducklings,  small  and  callow  : 

Their  little  wings  are  short,  their  down 
Is  mottled  gray  and  yellow. 


156  DAME   DUCK'S   FIK8T  LECTL'EE. 

There  is  a  quiet  little  stream, 

That  runs  into  the  moat, 
Where  tall  green  sedges  spread  their  leaves, 

And  water-lilies  float. 

Close  by  the  margin  of  the  brook 

The  old  duck  made  her  nest 
Of  straw,  and  leaves,  and  withered  grass, 

And  down  from  her  own  breast. 

And  there  she  sat  for  four  long  weeks. 

In  rainy  days  and  fine. 
Until  the  ducklings  all  came  out  — 

Four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight,  nine  ! 

One  peeped  out  from  beneath  her  wing, 

One  scrambled  on  her  back  ; 
"  That's  very  rude,"  said  old  Dame  Duck. 

"  Get  oft'!  quack,  quack,  quack,  quack  !  " 

"  'Tis  close,"  said  Dame  Duck,  shoving  out 

The  egg-shells  with  her  bill ; 
"  Besides,  it  never  suits  young  ducks 

To  keep  them  sitting  still." 

So,  rising  from  her  nest,  she  said, 
"  Now,  children,  look  at  me  : 

A  well-bred  duck  should  waddle  so, 
From  side  to  side  —  d'ye  see .''  " 


DAME   DUCK'S   FIRST  LECTURE.  157 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  ones,  and  then 

She  went  on  to  explain  : 
"  A  well-bred  duck  turns  in  its  toes 

As  I  do  —  try  again." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  ducklings,  waddling  on  ; 

"  That's  better,"  said  their  mother  ; 
"  But  well-bred  ducks  walk  in  a  row, 

Straight  —  one  behind  another." 

"Yes,"  said  the  little  ducks  again. 

All  waddling  in  a  row  ; 
"Now  to  the  pond,"  said  old  Dame  Duck  — 

Splash,  splash  !  and  in  they  go. 

"  Let  me  swim  first,"  said  old  Dame  Duck, 

"  To  this  side,  now  to  that ; 
There,  snap  at  those  great  brown-winged  flies, 

They  make  young  ducklings  fat. 

"  Now  when  you  reach  the  poultry-yard, 

The  hen-wife,  Molly  Head, 
Will  feed  you,  with  the  other  fowls. 

On  bran  and  mashed-up  bread  ; 

"  The  hens  will  peck  and  fight,  but  mind, 

I  hope  that  all  of  you 
Will  gobble  up  the  food  as  fast 

As  well-bi-ed  ducks  should  do. 


158  WAY  TO  1?E  HAPPY. 

"  You'd  better  get  into  the  dish, 

Unless  it  is  too  small ; 
In  that  case  I  should  use  ni}*  foot, 

And  overturn  it  all." 

The  ducklings  did  as  they  were  bid. 

And  found  the  plan  so  good, 

That  from  that  day  the  other  fowls 

Got  hardlv  any  food. 

Aunt  Effie's  Rhymes. 

WA2^  TO  BE  HAPPT. 


How  pleasant  it  is  at  the  end  of  the  day 

No  follies  to  have  to  repent ; 
But  reflect  on  the  past,  and  be  able  to  say 

That  my  time  has  been  properly  spent. 

When  I've  done  all  my  business  with  patience  and  care, 
And  been  good,  and  obliging,  and  kind, 

I  lie  on  my  pillow  and  sleep  away  there, 
With  a  happy  and  peaceable  mind. 

But  instead  of  all  this,  if  it  must  be  confessed 

That  I  careless  and  idle  have  been, 
I  lie  down  as  usual,  and  go  to  my  rest, 

But  feel  discontented  within. 


THE   STRANGE   LITTLE   BOY.  169 

Then,  as  I  don't  like  all  the  trouble  I've   had, 

In  future  I'll  try  to  prevent  it ; 
For  I  never  am  naughty  without  being  sad. 

Or  good  without  being  contented. 

Jane  Taylor. 

THE   STRANGE   LITTLE   BOY. 


Here  is  a  little  boy, 

Look  at  him  well : 
Think  if  you  know  him  ; 

If  you  do,  tell. 
I  will  describe  him, 

That  you  may  see 
If  he's  a  stranger 

To  you  and  to  me. 

He  has  two  hands 

That  can  manage  a  top. 
And  climb  a  tall  chestnut 

To  make  the  nuts  drop. 
They're  just  full  of  business, 

With  ball,  hoop,  and  swing; 
Yet  are  never  too  busy 

To  do  a  kind  thinsf. 


IGO 


THE   STRANGE   LI TTI.K    I'.(  tY 


He  has  two  feet 

Tliat  can  run  up  and  down 
0\er  tlie  country 

And  all  about  town. 


V. 


r^sje- 


X. 


I  should  think  they'd  be  tired, — 

Thcv  never  are  still  ; 
But  they're  ready  to  run  for  vou 

Whither  you  will. 


THE    STRANGE    LITTLE   BOY.  161 

He  lias  two  eyes, 

Always  busy  and  bright, 
And  looking  at  something 

From  morning  till  night. 
They  help  him  at  work. 

They  help  him  at  play, 
And  the  sweet  words  of  Jesus 

They  read  every  day- 
He  has  two  ears  : 

Oh,  how  well  he  can  hear 
The  birds  as  they  sing, 

And  the  boys  as  they  cheer ! 
They  are  out  on  the  Common, 

And  for  him  they  call ; 
But  one  word  from  his  mother 

He  hears  first  of  all. 

He  has  a  tongue 

That  moves  like  a  sprite  : 
It  begins  in  the  morning 

As  soon  as  the  light. 
It's  the  best  little  tongue 

You  can  anywhere  find. 
For  it  always  speaks  truth, 

And  it  always   is  kind. 

Posies  for  Chu.dren. 


''-^^^c-^:. 


MT   JESSIE. 


My  Jessie  lives  beyond  the  town. 

Just  where  the  moorland,  bare  and  brown, 

Looks  over  to  the  sea  : 
A  little  maid  of  lowly  birth. 
But,  oh  !  of  all  the  girls  on  earth, 

The  dearest  <rirl  to  me  ! 


MY  JESSIE.  163 

Few  summers  hath  she  known  :   her  eyes 
Are  bluer  than  the  summer  skies, 

And  brimming  o'er  with  fun  ; 
Her  hair  is  Hke  a  golden  crown ; 
Her  little  hands  are  sadly  brown ; 

Her  cheek  tells  of  the  sun. 


But  could  you  see  her  come  and  go, 
In  summer  shine  and  winter  snow, 

As  I  do,  day  by  day  ; 
Now  rising  like  the  lark  at  morn  ; 
Like  Ruth,  now  gleaming  in  the  corn  ; 

Now  busy  in  the  hay  ; 


Now  racing  like  a  greyhound  fleet 
Along  the  glist'ning  sands,  with  feet 

Like  snow  so  white  and  bare  ; 
All  beauty,  health,  enjoyment,  mirth, 
Yo-u'd  say  no  queen  on  all  the  earth 

Was  ever  half  so  fair  ! 

Mrs.  Edwards. 


164  LITTLE   LAMB. 


LITTLE   LAMB. 


Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee, 
Gave  thee  Hfe,  and  made  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead  ? 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, — 
vSoftest  clothing,  woolly,  bright? 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  Iamb,  I'll  tell  thee  ; 

Little  lamb,  I'll  tell  thee : 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild  ; 
He  became  a  little  child  : 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

Little  lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

Blake. 


THE  NEW  MOON. 


165 


THE  NEW  MOON. 


Dear  mother,  how  pretty 

The  moon  looks  to-night ! 

She  was  never  so  cunning  before  ; 


The  two  little  horns 
Are  so  sharp  and  so  bright, 
I  hope  she'll  not  grow  any  more. 


166  THE  NEW  MOON. 

If  I  were  up  there, 

With  yon  and  my  friends, 
I'd  rock  in  it  nicely,  you'd  see  ; 

I'd  sit  in  the  middle 

And  hold  by  both  ends  ; 
Oh,  what  a  bright  cradle  'twould  be  ! 

I  would  call  to  the  stars 

To  keep  out  of  the  way. 
Lest  we  should  rock  over  their  toes ; 

And  then  I  would  rock 

Till  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  see  where  the  pretty  moon  goes. 

And  there  we  would  stay 

In  the  beautiful  skies, 
And  through  the  bright  clouds  we  would  roam  ; 

We  would  see  the  sun  set. 

And  see  -the  sun  rise, 
And  in  the  next  rainbow  come  home. 

Mrs.  Follen. 


THE  BUSY  BEE.  »  167 


THE    BUST  BEE, 


How  doth  the  Httle  busy  bee 

Improve  each  shuiing  hour, 
And  gather  honey  all  the  day 

From  every  opening  flower  ! 

How  skilfully  she  builds  her  cell ! 

How  neat  she  spreads  the  wax ! 
And  labors  hard  to  store  it  well 

With  the  sweet  food  she  makes. 

In  works  of  labor  or  of  skill 

I  would  be  busy  too  ; 
For  Satan  finds  some  mischief  still 

For  idle  hands  to  do. 

In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  play, 

Let  my  first  years  be  past ; 

That  I  may  give  for  every  day 

Some  good  account  at  last. 

Watts. 


168  ^       THE  ANT. 


THE  ANT. 


These  emmets,  how  Httle  they  arc  in  our  eyes! 
We  tread  them  to  dust,  and  a  troop  of  them  dies, 

Williout  our  regard  or  concern  ; 
Yet  as  wise  as  we  are,  if  sent  to  their  school. 
There's  many  a  sluggard  and  many  a  fool 

Some  lessons  of  wisdom  might  learn. 

They  don't  wear  their  time  out  in  sleeping  or  play, 
But  gather  up  corn  on  a  sunshiny  day. 

And  for  winter  they  lay  up  their  stores  ; 
They  manage  their  worlc  in  such  regular  forms, 
One  would   think   they    foresaw   all    the    frosts    and    the 
storms, 

And  so  brought  their  food  within  doors. 

But  I  have  less  sense  than  a  poor  creeping  ant, 
If  I  take  not  due  care  for  the  things  I  shall  want. 

Nor  provide  against  dangers  in  time  ; 
When  death  and  old  age  shall  stare  in  my  fixce, 
What  a  wretch  shall  I  be  in  the  end  of  my  days, 

If  I  trifle  away  all  their  prime  ! 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY. 


169 


Now,  now  while  my  strength  and  my  youth  are  in  bloom, 
Let  me  think  what  shall  save   me  when   sickness  shall 
come, 
And  pray  that  my  sins  be  forgiven  ; 
Let  me  read  in  good  books,  and  believe  and  obey, 
Tliat  when  death  turns  me  out  of  this  cottage  of  clay, 
1  may  dwell  in  a  palace  in  heaven. 

Watts. 


TO  A   BUTTERFLY. 


1  'VE  watched  you  now  a  full  half-hour, 
Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower ! 
And,  little  butterfly,  indeed, 

f       I  know  not  if  you  sleej:)  or  feed. 

How  motionless  !  —  not  frozen  seas 

More  motionless  ;  and  then, 
What  joy  awaits  you  when  the  breeze 
Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees. 
And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 


This  plot  of  orchard  ground  is  ours, 
My  trees  they  are,  my  sister's  flowers  ; 
Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary, 
Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary  ! 


170  THE   PRISONER  TO   A  ROBEST. 

Come  to  LIS  often,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 
We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song, 
And  summer  days  when  we  were  young ; 
Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 

As  twenty  days  are  now. 

Wordsworth. 

THE   PRISONER    TO  A    ROBIN    WHO    CAME    TO 
HIS    WINDOW. 


Welcome!  welcome,  little  stranger! 

Welcome  to  my  lone  retreat ! 
Here  scciue  from  every  danger, 
Hop  about,  and  chirp,  and  eat. 
Robin  !   how  1  envy  thee, 
Happy  child  of  liberty  ! 

Hunger  never  shall  distress  thee 

While  my  meals  one  crumb  aflbrd  ; 
Colds  and  cramps  shall  ne'er  oppress  thee. 
Come  and  share  my  humble  board  ; 
Robin,  come  and  live  with  me  ; 
Live,  yet  still  at  liberty. 


THE   PRISONER  TO  A  ROBUST.  171 

Soon  shall  spring,  with  smiles  and  blushes, 

Steal  upon  the  blooming  year  ; 
Then,  amid  the  verdant  bushes. 
Thy  sweet  song  shall  warble  clear  ; 
Then  shall  I,  too,  joined  with  thee. 
Taste  the  sweets  of  liberty. 


Liberty  !  thou  brightest  treasure 

In  the  crown  of  earthly  joys ! 

Source  of  gladness  !  soul  of  pleasure  ! 

All  delights  besides  are  toys  : 

None  but  prisoners  like  me 

Know  the  worth  of  liberty. 

James  Montgomery. 


1 72  TIME. 


TIME. 


"Sixty  seconds  make  a  minute, 
Sixty  minutes  make  an  hour ;  " 

If  I  were  a  little  linnet, 

Hopping  in  her  leafy  bower, 

Then  I  should  not  have  to  sing  it : 

"  Sixty  seconds  make  a  minute." 

"  Twenty-four  hours  make  one  day, 
Seven  days  will  make  a  week  :  " 

And  while  we  all  at  marbles  play. 
Or  run  at  cunning  "  hide  and  seek," 

Or  in  the  garden  gather  llowers. 

We'll  tell  the  time  that  makes  the  hours. 


In  every  mouth  the  weeks  are  four. 

And  twelve  whole  months  will  make  a  year; 
Now  I  must  say  it  o'er  and  o'er. 

Or  else  it  never  will  l)c  clear  ; 
So  once  again  I  will  begin  it: 
"  Sixty  seconds  make  a  minute." 


MABEL   ON   MIDSUMMER   DAY.  173 


MABEL    ON  MIDSUMMER   DAT 


A    STORY    OF    THE    OLDEN    TIME. 


Part  I. 

"Arise,  my  maiden,  Mabel," 

The  mother  said  ;   '•  arise, 
For  the  golden  sun  of  midsummer 

Is  shining  in  the  skies. 

"Arise,  my  little  maiden. 

For  thou  must  speed  a\va^■, 
To  wait  upon  thy  grandmother 

This  livelong  summer  day. 

"  And  thou  must  carry  with  thee 

This  wheaten  cake  so  fine. 
This  new-made  pat  of  butter, 

This  little  flask  of  wine. 

"  And  tell  the  dear  old  body. 

This  day  I  cannot  come. 
For  the  good  man  went  out  yester-morn, 

And  he  is  not  come  home. 


••  And  more  than  this,  poor  Amy 
Upon  my  knee  doth  lie  ; 
,7/        I  fear  me,  with  this  fever-pain 
""'•  '"  The  Httle  child  will  die  ! 


••  And  thon  canst  help  thy  grandmother 
The  table  thou  canst  spread  ; 

Canst  feed  the  little  dog  and  bird  ; 
And  thou  canst  make  her  bed. 


"  And  thou  canst  fetch  the  water 
From  the  lady-well  hard  by  ; 

And  thou  canst  gather  from  the  wood 
The  fagots  brown  and  dry  ; 


MABEL   OX  MIDSUMMER  DAY.  175 

"  Canst  go  down  to  the  lonesome  glen, 

To  milk  the  mother-ewe  ; 
This  is  the  work,  my  Mabel, 

That  thou  wilt  have  to  do. 

"  But  listen  now,  mv  Mabel, 

This  is  midsummer  day. 
When  all  the  fairy  people 

From  elf-land  come  away. 

"And  when  thou'rt  in  the  lonesome  glen. 

Keep  by  the  running  burn. 
And  do  not  pluck  the  strawberry-flower, 

Nor  break  the  lady-fern. 

"  But  tl-iink  not  of  the  fairy  folk. 

Lest  mischief  should  befall ; 
Think  only  of  poor  Amy, 

And  how  thou  lov'st  us  all. 

"  Yet  keep  good  heart,  my  Mabel, 

If  thou  the  fairies  see. 
And  give  them  kindlv  answer 

If  they  should  speak  to  thee. 

"And  when  into  the  fir-wood 

Thou  goest  for  fagots  brown. 
Do  not,  like  idle  children. 

Go  wandering  up  and  down. 


17G  MABEI.  ON  MIDSUMMER   DAY. 

"  But  fill  thy  little  apron, 

My  child,  with  earnest  speed  ; 

And  that  thou  break  no  living  bough 
Within  the  wood  take  heed. 

"  For  they  are  spiteful  brownies 
Who  in  the  wood  abide  ; 

So  be  thou  careful  of  this  thing, 
Lest  evil  should  betide. 

''  But  think  not,  litde  IMabel, 
Whilst  thou  art  in  the  wood, 

Of  dwarfish,  wilful  brownies, 
But  of  the  Father  good. 

"  And  when  thou  goest  to  the  spring 
To  fetch  the  water  thence. 

Do  not  disturb  the  little  stream. 
Lest  this  should  give  offence. 

"  For  the  queen  of  all  the  fairies. 
She  loves  that  water  bright ; 

I've  seen  her  drinking  there  myself 
On  manv  a  summer  night. 

"  But  she's  a  gracious  lady. 
And  her  thou  necds't  not  fear ; 

Only  disturb  thou  not  the  stream, 
Nor  spill  the  water  clear." 


MABEL   ON   MIDSUMMER   DAY.  177 

"  Now  all  this  I  will  heed,  mother, 

Will  no  word  disobey, 
And  wait  upon  the  grandmother 

This  livelong"  summer  day." 


Part  II. 

Away  tripped  little  Mabel, 

With  the  wheaten  cake  so  fine, 

With  the  new-made  pat  of  butter, 
And  the  little  flask  of  wine. 

And  long  before  the  sun  was  hot. 
And  the  summer  mist  had  cleared. 

Beside  the  good  old  grandmother 
The  willing  child  appeared. 

And  all  her  mother's  message 
She  told  with  right  good-will. 

How  that  the  father  was  away. 
And  the  little  child  was  ill. 

And  then  she  swept  the  hearth  up  clean, 

And  then  the  table  spread  ; 
And  next  she  fed  the  dog  and  bird  ; 

And  then  she  made  the  bed. 


178  MABEL  ON  MIDSUMMER  DAY. 

"And  go  now,"  said  tlic  grandmother, 

"■  Ten  paces  down  the  dell, 
And  bring  in  water  for  the  day,  — 

Thou  know'st  the  hxdy-welh" 

The  first  time  that  good  Mabel  went, 

Nothing  at  all  saw  she, 
Except  a  bird,  a  sky-blue  bird. 

That  sat  upon  a  tree. 

The  next  time  that  good  Mabel  went, 

There  sat  a  lady  bright 
Beside  the  well,  —  a  lady  small, 

All  clothed  in  green  and  white. 

A  courtesy  low  made  JNIabel, 

And  then  she  stooped  to  fill 
Her  pitcher  at  the  sparkling  spring, 

But  no  drop  did  she  spill. 

"  Thou  art  a  handy  maiden," 

The  fairy  lady  said  ; 
"  Thou  hast  not  spilt  a  drop,  nor  yet 

The  fairy  spring  troubled  ! 

"  And  for  this  thing  which  thou  hast  done. 

Vet  mayst  not  understand, 
I  give  to  thee  a  better  gift 

Than  houses  or  than  land. 


180  MABEL  ON  MIDSUMMER  DAY. 

"  Thou  shalt  do  well  whate'cr  thou  dost, 
As  thou  hast  done  this  day  ; 

Shalt  have  the  will  and  power  to  please, 
And  shalt  be  loved  alway." 

Thus  having  said,  she  passed  from  sight, 
And  nought  could  Mabel  see, 

But  the  little  bird,  the  sky-blue  bird. 
Upon  the  leafy  tree. 

"And  now  go,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"  And  fetch  in  fagots  dry  ; 
All  in  the  neighboring  fir-wood 

Beneath  the  trees  they  lie." 

Away  went  kind,  good  Mabel, 

Into  the  fir-wood  near, 
Where  all  the  ground  was  dry  and  brown. 

And  the  grass  grew  thin  and  sear. 

She  did  not  wander  up  and  down, 

Nor  3'et  a  live  branch  pull. 
But  steadily  of  tlie  fallen  boughs 

She  picked  her  apron  full. 

And  when  the  wild-wood  brownies 

Came  sliding  to  her  mind. 
She  drove  them  thence,  as  she  was  told, 

With  home-thou<2:hts  sweet  and  kind. 


Mabel  on  midsummer  day.  181 

But  all  that  while  the  brownies 

Within  the  fir-wood  still, 
They  watched  her  how  she  picked  the  wood, 

And  strove  to  do  no  ill. 

"  And,  oh,  but  she  is  small  and  neat," 

Said  one  ;    "  'twere  shame  to  spite 
A  creature  so  demure  and  meek, 

A  creature  harmless  quite  !  " 

"  Look  only,"  said  another, 

"  At  her  little  gown  of  blue  : 
At  her  kerchief  pinned  about  her  head, 

And  at  her  little  shoe  !  " 

"  Oh,  but  she  is  a  comely  child," 

Said  a  third  ;    "  and  we  will  lay 
A  good-luck  penny  in  her  path, 

A  boon  for  her  this  day,  — 
Seeing  she  broke  no  living  wood  ; 

No  live  thing  did  affray  !  " 

With  that  the  smallest  penny. 

Of  the  finest  silver  ore. 
Upon  the  dry  and  slippery  path, 

Lay  Mabel's  feet  before. 


182  MABEL  ON  MIDSUMMER  DAY. 

With  joy  slie  picked  the  penny  up, 

The  fairy  penny  good  ; 
And  with  her  fagots  dry  and  brown 

Went  wandering  from  the  wood. 

"  Now  she  has  that,"  said  the  brownies, 

"  Let  flax  be  ever  so  dear, 
'Twill  buy  her  clothes  of  the  very  best. 

For  many  and  many  a  year  I  " 

'^  And  go  now,"  said  the  grandmother, 

"  Since  falling  is  the  dew. 
Go  down  unto  the  lonesome  glen, 

And  milk  the  mother-ewe  !  " 

All  down  into  the  lonesome  glen. 
Through  copses  thick  and  wild, 

Through  moist  rank  grass,  by  trickling  streams, 
Went  on  the  \villing  child. 

And  when  she  came  to  the  lonesome  glen, 

She  kept  beside  the  burn, 
And  neither  plucked  the  strawberry-flower 

Nor  broke  the  lady-fern. 

And  while  she  milked  the  mother-ewe 

Within  this  lonesome  glen. 
She  wished  that  little  Amy 

Were  strong  and  well  again. 


MABEL  ON  MIDSUMMER  DAY.  "     183 

And  soon  as  she  had  thought  this  thought, 

She  heard  a  coming  sound, 
As  if  a  thousand  fairy-folk 

Were  gathering  all  around. 

And  then  she  heard  a  little  voice, 

Shrill  as  the  midge's  wing, 
That  spake  aloud,  —  '■'A  human  child 

Is  here  ;  yet  mark  this  thing,  — 

"  The  lady-fern  is  all  unbroke. 

The  strawberry-flower  imta'en  ! 
What  shall  be  done  for  her  who  still" 

From  mischief  can  refrain?" 

"  Give  her  a  fairy  cake  !  "  said  one  ; 

"  Grant  her  a  wish  !  "  said  three  : 
"  The  latest  wish  that  she  hath  wished," 

Said  all.  "  whate'er  it  be  !  " 

Kind  Mabel  heard  the  words  they  spake, 

And  from  the  lonesome  glen 
Unto  the  good  old  grandmother 

Went  gladly  back  again. 

Thus  happened  it  to  Mabel 

On  that  midsummer  day. 
And  these  three  fairy-blessings 

She  took  with  her  away. 


184  i  HEARD  AN  ANGEL. 


'Tis  good  to  make  all  duty  sweet, 

To  be  alert  and  kind  ; 
'Tis  good,  like  little  Mabel, 

To  have  a  willing  mind. 

Mary   Howitt. 


/  HEARD  AN  ANGEL. 


I  heai-d  an  angel  singing, 
When  the  day  was  springing 
"  Mercy,  pity,  and  peace 
Are  the  world's  release  !  " 


vSo  he  sang  all  day 

Over  the  new-mown  hay, 

Till  the  sun  went  down, 

And  the  hav-cocks  looked  brown. 


Blake. 


FAITH  IN  GOD.  185 


FAITH  IN  GOD. 


I  knew  a  widow  very  poor, 
Who  four  small  children  had : 

The  oldest  was  but  six  years  old, 
A  gentle,  modest  lad. 

And  very  hard  this  widow  toiled 

To  feed  her  children  four  ; 
A  noble  heart  the  mother  had, 

Though  she  was  very  poor. 

To  labor,  she  would  leave  her  home, 

For  children  must  be  fed  ; 
And  glad  was  she  when  she  could  buy 

A  shilling's  worth  of  bread. 

And  this  was  all  the  children  had 

On  any  day  to  eat : 
They  drank  their  water,  ate  their  bread, 

But  never  tasted  meat. 

One  day,  when  snow  was  falling  fast. 

And  piercing  was  the  air, 
I  thought  that  I  would  go  and  see 

How  these  poor  children  were. 


186  FAITH   IN  G(3D. 

Ere  long  I  reached  their  cheerless  home  — 
'Twas  searched  by  every  breeze  — 

When,  going  in,  the  eldest  child 
I  saw  upon  his  knees. 

I  paused  to  listen  to  the  boy  : 

He  never  raised  his  head, 
But  still  went  on,  and  said,  '•  Give  us 

This  day  our  dailv  bread." 

I  waited  till  the  child  was  done, 

Still  listening  as  he  prayed  ; 
And  when  he  rose,  I  asked  him  why 

That  prayer  he  then  liad  said. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  he,  "this  morning,  when 

M}'  mother  went  away. 
She  wept,  because  she  said  she  had 

No  bread  for  us  to- da}'. 

"  She  said  we  children  now  must  starve, 

Our  father  being  dead  ; 
And  then  I  told  her  not  to  cry. 

For  I  could  get  some  bread. 

"  '  Our  Father,'  sir,  the  prayer  begins, 
Which  made  me  think  that  He, 

As  we  have  no  kind  father  here, 
Would  our  kind  Father  be. 


FAITH  IN  GOD.  18: 

"And  then  you  know,  sir,  that  the  prayer 

Asks  God  tor  bread  each  day  ; 
So  in  the  corner,  sir,  I  went, 

And  that's  what  made  me  pray." 

I  quickly  left  that  wretched  room, 

And  went  with  fleeting  feet, 
And  very  soon  was  back  again 

With  food  enough  to  eat. 

"  I  thought  God  heard  me,"  said  the  boy  ; 

I  answered  with  a  nod  ; 
I  could  not  speak,  but  much  I  thought 

Of  that  boy's  faith  in  God. 

Hawks. 


188  NURSERY-SONG. 


NURSE  R  2-SOiVG. 


As  I  walked  over  the  hill  one  day, 

I  listened,  and  heard  a  mother-sheep  say, 

"  In  all  the  green  world  there  is  nothing  so  sweet 

As  my  little  lammie,  with  his  nimble  feet ; 

With  his  eye  so  bright. 

And  his  wool  so  white, 
Oh  !  he  is  my  darling,  my  heart's  delight." 
And  the  mother-sheep  and  her  little  one 
Side  by  side  lay  down  in  the  sun  ; 
And  they  went  to  sleep  on  the  hill-side  warm. 
While  my  little  lammie  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

I  went  to  the  kitchen,  and  what  did  I  see 
But  the  old  gray  cat  with  her  kittens  three  ! 
I  heard  her  whispering  soft:  said  she, 
"  My  kittens,  with  tails  so  cunningly  curled. 
Are  the  prettiest  things  that  can  be  in  the  world. 

The  bird  on  the  tree. 

And  the  old  ewe  —  she. 

May  love  their  babies  exceedingly  ; 

But  I  love  my  kittens  there, 

Under  the  rockinjr-chair. 


NURSERY-SONG.  189 

I  love  my  kittens  with  all  my  might, 

I  love  them  at  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

Now  I'll  take  up  my  kitties,  the  kitties  I  love, 

And  we'll  lie  down  together  beneath  the  warm  stove." 

Let  the  kittens  sleep  under  the  stove  so  warm. 

While  my  little  darling  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

I  went  to  the  yard,  and  I  saw  the  old  hen 

Go  clucking  about  with  her  chickens  ten  ; 

She  clucked  and  she  scratched  and  she  bustled  away. 

And  what  do  you  think  I  heard  the  hen  say .'' 

I  heard  her  say,  "  The  sun  never  did  shine 

On  anything  like  to  these  chickens  of  mine  ! 

You  may  hunt  the  full  moon  and  the  stars,  if  you  please, 

But  you  never  will  find  ten  such  chickens  as  these  ; 

My  dear  downy  darlings,  my  sweet  little  things, 

Come,  nestle  now  cosily  under  my  wings." 

So  the  hen  said, 

And  the  chickens  all  sped 
As  fast  as  they  could  to  their  nice  feather-bed. 
And  there  let  them  sleep  in  their  feathers  so  warm, 
While  my  little  chick  lies  here  on  my  arm. 

Mrs.  Carter. 


THE  ANGELS'    WHISPER. 


A  baby  was  sleeping,  its  mother  was  weeping, 

For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild,  raging  sea ; 
And   the   tempest   was   swelling   round  the   fisherman's 
dwelling, 
And  she  cried,  '•  Dermot,  darling,  oh!  come  back  to 
me." 


THE  ANGELS"   WHISPER.  I'Jl 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered,  the  baby  still  slumbered, 
And  smiled  in  her  face  while  she  bended  her  knee. 

'■  Oh !    blessed    be    that    warning,    my    child,    thy    sleep 
adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  \vhispering  with  thee. 


"'  And   while    they   are    keeping    bright    watch    o'er    thy 
sleeping, 

Oh  !  pray  to  them  softly,  my  bab\-,  with  me  ; 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather  they'd  watch  o'er  thy  father. 

For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee." 


The  dawn  of  the  morning  saw  Dermot  returning. 
And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see  ; 

And  closely  caressing  her  child,  with  a  blessing. 

Said,   "  I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with 

thee." 

Lover. 


I  love  it  —  I  lo\'c  it,  and  who  shall  dare 

To  chide  me  for  loving  that  old  arm-chair! 

I've  treasured  it  long  as  a  sainted  prize  — 

I've  bedewed  it  with  tears,  I've  cmbahned  it  with  sighs 


THE   OLD  ARM-CHAIR.  193 

'Tis  bound  by  a  thousand  bands  to  m^'  heart, 
Not  a  tie  will  break,  not  a  link  will  start. 
Would  you  learn  the  spell  ?  —  a  mother  sat  there, 
And  a  sacred  thins.-  is  that  old  arm-chair. 


In  childhood's  hour  I  lingered  near 

The  hallowed  seat  with  listening  ear ; 

And  gentle  words  that  mother  would  give, 

To  fit  me  to  die,  and  teach  me  to  live. 

She  told  me  shame  would  never  betide, 

With  truth  for  my  creed,  and  God  for  my  Guide  ; 

She  taught  me  to  lisp  my  earliest  prayer 

As  I  knelt  beside  that  old  arm-chair. 


I  sat  and  watched  her  many  a  day, 

When  her  eyes  grew  dim  and  her  locks  were  gray, 

And  I  almost  worshipped  her  when  she  smiled 

And  turned  from  her  Bible  to  bless  her  child. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  the  last  one  sped, 

My  idol  was  shattered  —  my  earth-star  fled  : 

I  learnt  how  much  the  heart  can  bear 

When  I  saw  her  die  in  that  old  arm-chair. 

Eliza  Cook. 


194  GRANDPAPA. 


GRANDPAPA. 


Grandpajoa's  hair  is  very  vvliite, 
And  grandpapa  walks  but  slow  ; 

He  likes  to  sit  still  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  the  children  come  and  go. 

"  Hush  !  — play  quietly,"  says  mamma  ; 

"  Let  nobody  trouble  dear  grandpapa." 

Grandpapa's  hand  is  thin  and  weak, 
It  has  worked  hard  all  his  days : 

A  strong  right  hand  and  an  honest  hand, 
That  has  won  all  good  men's  praise. 

"  Kiss  it  tenderly,"  says  mamma  ; 

"  Let  every  one  honor  grandpapa." 

Grandpapa's  eyes  are  growing  dim  ; 

They  have  looked  on  sorrow  and  death  ; 
But  the  love-light  never  went  out  of  them, 

Nor  the  courage  and  the  faith. 
"  You  children,  all  of  you,"  says  mamma. 
"  Have  need  to  look  up  to  dear  grandpapa." 


FATHER  WILLIAM.  195 

Grandpapa's  years  are  wearing  few, 

But  he  leaves  a  blessing  behind  — 
A  good  life  lived,  and  a  good  fight  fought, 

True  heart  and  equal  mind. 
"Remember,  my  children,"  says  mamma, 
"  You  bear  the  name  of  your  grandpapa." 

Mrs.  CraU'C. 
FATHER     WILLIAM. 


"  You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried  ; 

"  The  few  locks  that  are  left  you  are  gray  ; 
You  are  hale,  Father  William,  a  hearty  old  man  ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 

"  In  the  days  of  my  youth,"  Father  William  replied, 
"  I  remembered  that  youth  would  fly  fast ; 

And  abused  not  my  health  and  my  vigor  at  first. 
That  I  never  might  need  them  at  last." 

"  You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried, 
''  And  pleasures  with  youth  pass  away  ; 

And  yet  you  lament  not  the  days  that  are  gone  ; 
Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 


196  A  MASQUERADE. 

"  In  the  days  of  my  youth."  Father  WilHam  replied, 
"  I  remembered  that  youth  could  not  last ; 
.  I  thought  of  the  future,  whatever  I  did. 
That  I  never  might  grieve  for  the  past." 


"You  are  old,  Father  William,"  the  young  man  cried, 

"  And  life  must  be  hast'ning  away  ; 
You  are  cheerful,  and  love  to  converse  upon  death  ; 

Now  tell  me  the  reason,  I  pray." 


"I  am  cheerful,  yoimg  man,"  Father  William  replied, 

"  Let  the  cause  thy  attention  engage  : 
In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  remembered  my  God. 

And  He  hath  not  forgotten  mv  age." 

SOUTHEV. 


A   MASQUERADE. 


A  little  old  woman  before  me 
Went  slowly  down  the  street ; 

Walking  as  if  aweary 

Were  her  feeble,  tottering  feet. 


A  MASQUERADE.  197 

From  under  her  old  poke  bonnet 

I  caught  a  gleam  of  snow, 
And  her  waving  cap-string  floated, 

Like  a  pennon,  to  and  fro. 

In  the  folds  of  her  rusty  mantle 

Sudden  her  footstep -caught, 
And  I  sprang  to  keep  her  from  falling, 

With  a  touch  as  quick  as  thought. 

When,  under  the  old  poke  bonnet, 

I  saw  a  winsome  face, 
Framed  in  with  the  flaxen  ringlets 

Of  my  wee  daughter  Grace. 

Mantle  and  cap  together 

Dropped  ofl'  at  my  very  feet ; 
And  there  stood  the  little  fairy. 

Beautiful,  blushing,  sweet ! 

Will  it  be  like  this.  I  wonder. 

When  at  last  we  come  to  stand 
On  the  golden,  ringing  pavement 

Of  the  blessed,  blessed  land.'' 

Losing  the  rustv  garments 

We  wore  in  the  years  of  Time, 
Will  our  better  selves  spring  backward, 

Serene  in  a  youth  sublime.^ 


198        THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

Tnstead  of  the  shapes  that  hid  us, 
And  made  us  old  and  gray, 

Shall  we  get  our  child-hearts  back  again, 
With  a  brightness  that  will  stay? 

I  thought  —  but  my  little  daughter 
Slipped  her  dimpled  hand  in  mine  ; 

"  I  was  only  playing,"  she  whispered, 
"  That  I  was  ninety-nine." 


THE    GRAVES   OF  A   HOUSEHOLD. 


They  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  filled  one  home  with  glee  ; 

Their  graves  are  severed  far  and  wide. 
By  mount,  and  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair,  sleeping  brow  ; 

She  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight: 
Where  are  those  sleepers  now  ? 

One,  midst  tlie  forest  of  the  West, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid  ; 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  of  rest, 

Far  in  the  cedar  shade. 


200  THE  gravp:s  of  a  household. 

The  sea,  the  blue,  lone  sea,  hath  one  ; 

He  Hes  where  pearls  lie  deep  ; 
He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 

O'er  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  dressed 

Above  the  noble  slain  ; 
He  wrapped  the  colors  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 


And  one  —  o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  leaves  by  soft  winds  fanned  ; 

She  faded  midst  Italian  flowers  — 
The  last  of  that  foir  band. 


And  parted  thus,  they  rest  who  played 
Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 

Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  prayed 
Around  one  parent  knee. 


They  that  with  .smiles  lit  up  the  liall. 

And  cheered  witli  song  the  hearth  ; 
Alas  for  love  !   if  thou  wcrt  all, 

And  nought  beyond,  O  earth  ! 


Mrs.  Hemans. 


GEORGE  NIDIVER. 


201 


GEORGE   NIDIVER. 


Men  hav^e  done  brave  deeds, 
And  baixls  have  sung  them  well 

1  of  good  George  Nidiver 
Now  the  tale  will  tell. 

In  Californian  mountains 

A  hunter  bold  was  he  : 
Keen  his  eye  and  sure  his  aim 

As  any  you  should  see. 

A  little  Indian  boy 

Followed  him  everywhere. 
Eager  to  share  the  hunter's  joy, 

The  hunter's  meal  to  share. 

And  when  the  bird  or  deer 
Fell  by  the  hunter's  skill, 

The  boy  was  always  near 

To  help  with  right  good-will. 

One  day  as  through  the  cleft 
Between  two  mountains  steep, 

Shut  in  both  right  and  left, 
Their  weary  \\ay  they  keep. 


202  GEORGE   NIDIVER. 

They  see  two  grizzly  bears, 
With  hunger  fierce  and  fell, 

Rush  at  them  unawares 

Right  down  the  narrow  dell. 

The  boy  turned  round  with  screams, 
And  ran  with  terror  wild  ; 

One  of  the  pair  of  savage  beasts 
Pursued  the  shrieking  child. 

The  hunter  raised  his  gun, — 
He  knew  one  charge  was  all, — 

And  through  the  boy's  pursuing  foe 
He  sent  his  only  ball. 

The  other  on  George  Nidiver 
Came  on  with  dreadt'ul  pace  ; 

The  hunter  stood  unarmed, 
And  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  say  U7iar))icd  he  stood  : 
Against  those  frightful  paws 

The  rifle  butt,  or  club  of  wood, 
Could  stand  no  more  than  straws. 

George  Nidiver  stood  still 
And  looked  him  in  the  face  ; 

The  wild  beast  stopped  amazed. 
Then  came  with  slack'ning  pace. 


GEORGE  NIDIVER.  203 

Still  firm  the  hunter  stood, 

Although  his  heart  beat  high  ; 
Again  the  creature  stopped, 

And  gazed  with  wond'ring  eye. 

The  hunter  met  his  gaze, 

Nor  yet  an  inch  gave  way  ; 
The  bear  turned  slowly  round. 

And  slowly  moved  away. 

What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind 

It  would  be  hard  to  spell ; 
What  thoughts  were  in  George  Nidiver 

I  rather  guess  than  tell. 

But  sure  that  rifle's  aim, 

Swift  choice  of  gen'rous  part. 
Showed  in  its  passing  gleam 

The  depths  of  a  brave  heart. 


THE   IDLE    SHEPHERD-BOTi>. 


The  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy  ; 

Among  the  hills  the  echoes  play 
A  never,  never-ending  song, 

To  welcome  in  the  May. 
The  magpie  chatters  with  delight ; 

The  mountain  raven's  youngling  brood 
Have  left  the  mother  and  the  nest, 
And  they  go  rambling  east  and  west 

In  search  of  their  own  food  ; 
Or  through  the  glilt'ring  vapors  dart 
In  verv  wantonness  of  heart. 


Beneath  a  rock,  upon  the  grass, 
Two  boys  are  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

It  seems  they  have  no  work  to  do, 
Or  that  their  work  is  done. 


THE   IDLE   SHEPHERD-BOYS.  205 

On  pipes  of  sycamore  they  play 

The  fragments  of  a  Christmas  hymn  ;• 

Or  with  that  plant  which  in  our  dale 

We  call  stag-horn,  or  fox's  tail, 
Their  rusty  hats  they  trim  : 

And  thus,  as  happy  as  the  day, 

Those  shepherds  wear  the  time  away. 

Along  the  river's  stony  marge 

The  sand-lark  chants  a  joyous  song  ; 
The  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood. 

And  carols  loud  and  strong ; 
A  thousand  lambs  are  on  the  rocks, 

All  newly  born  ;  —  both  earth  and  sky 
Keep  jubilee  ;  and  more  than  all, 
Those  boys  with  their  green  coronal ; 

They  never  hear  the  cry, 
That  plaintive  cry  !  which  up  the  hill 
Comes  from  the  depth  of  Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said  Walter,  leaping  from  the  ground, 
''  Down  to  the  stump  of  yon  old  yew 

We'll  for  our  whistles  run  a  race." 
Away  the  shepherds  flew. 

They  leapt — they  ran  —  and  when  they  came 
Right  opposite  to  Dungeon-Ghyll, 

Seeing  that  he  should  lose  the  prize. 

"  StoD  !  "  to  his  comrade  Walter  cries. 


20G  THE    IDLE    SlIEPIIEllD-BOYS. 

James  stopped  with  no  good  Avill ; 
Said  Walter  then,  "  Your  task  is  here, 
'Twill  keep  you  working  half  a  year. 

"  Now  cross  where  I  shall  cross  — come  on. 

And  follow  me  where  I  shall  lead." 
The  other  took  him  at  his  word. 

But  did  not  like  the  deed. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  may  see 

If  ever  you  to  Langdale  go  : 
Into  a  chasm  a  mighty  block 
Hath  fallen,  and  made  a  bridge  of  rock  ; 

The  gulf  is  deep  below  ; 
And  in  a  basin  black  and  small 
Receives  a  mighty  waterfall. 

With  staff' in  hand  across  the  cleft 

The  challenger  l)egan  his  march  ; 
And  now.  all  eyes  and  feet,  hath  gained 

The  middle  of  the  arch. 
When,  list!   he  hears  a  piteous  moan  — 

Again!  —  his  heart  within  liini  dies  — 
Ilis  pulse  is  stopped,  his  breath  is  lost. 
He  totters,  pale  as  any  ghost. 

And,  looking  down,  he  spies 
A  lamb  that  in  the  pool  is  pent 
Within  that  black  and  frightful  rent. 


THE  IDLE  SHEPHERD-BOYS.  207 

The  lamb  had  slipped  into  the  stream, 

And  safe  without  a  bruise  or  wound 
The  cataract  had  borne  him  down 

Into  the  gulf  profound. 
His  dam  had  seen  him  when  he  fell ; 

She  saw  him  down  the  torrent  borne  ; 
And,  while  with  all  a  mother's  love 
She  from  the  lofty  rocks  above 

Sent  forth  a  cry  forlorn, 
The  lamb,  still  swimming  round  and  round, 
Made  answer  to  the  plaintive  sound. 

When  he  had  learnt  what  thing  it  was 

That  sent  this  rueful  cry,  I  ween 
The  boy  recovered  heart,  and  told 

The  sight  which  he  had  seen. 
Both  gladly  now  deferred  their  task  ; 

Nor  was  there  wanting  other  aid, — 
A  poet,  one  who  loves  the  brooks 
Far  better  than  the  sages'  books, 

By  chance  had  thither  strayed  ; 
And  there  the  helpless  lamb  he  found, 
By  those  huge  rocks  encompassed  round. 

He  drew  it  gently  from  the  pool. 

And  brought  it  forth  into  the  light ; 
The  shepherds  met  h4m  with  his  charge. 

An  unexpected  sight  I 


208  ALLEN-A-D.\LE. 

Into  their  arms  the  himb  thev  took  : 

Said  the}-,  "  lie's  neither  maimed  nor  scarred." 
Then  up  the  steep  ascent  they  hied, 
And  phiced  him  at  his  mother's  side  ; 

And  gently  did  the  bard 
Tliose  idle  shepherd-boys  upbraid. 
And  bade  them  better  mind  their  trade. 

Wordsworth. 
ALLEN-A-DALE. 


AUen-a-Dalc  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  wiiming. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle  !  come,  hearken  my  tale, 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances  in  pride. 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side, 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  game. 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the  tame  ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake  and  the  deer  of  the  vale 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a-Dale. 


AI>LEX-A-DALE.  209 

AlIen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 

Though  his  spur  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade  be  as  bright ; 

Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord. 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his  word  ; 

And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnets  will  vail. 

Who  at  Rere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets  Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come  ; 
The  mother,  she  asked  of  his  household  and  home  : 
"■  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on  the  hill, 
My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allen,  "shows  gallanter  still ; 
'Tis  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  crescent  so  pale, 
And  with  all  its  bright  spangles  !  "  said  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone  ; 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him  be  gone  ; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and  their  cry  : 
He  had  laughed  on  the  lass  with  his  bonu}'  black  eye. 
And  slie  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale. 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen-a-Dale. 

Scott. 


210      ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAl^. 


ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL, 


When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 

Went  o'er  yoia  bank  of  broom, 
Said  Robin  Hood  to  Little  John, 

"  We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound  ; 

"  But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more,  — 

My  arrows  will  not  flee  ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below. 

Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me." 

Now  Roljin  is  to  fair  Kirkley  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  win  ; 
But  before  he  came  there,  as  wc  do  hear, 

He  was  taken  very  ill. 

And  when  that  he  came  to  fair  Kirklcv  Hall, 

He  knocked  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 

For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

"  Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Robin,"  she  said, 

"  And  drink  some  beer  with  me.^"  — 
"No,  1  will  neither  eat  nor  drink 

Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee." 


ROBIN   HOOD'S   DEATH   AND   BUKIAL.  211 

"  Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin,"  slie  said, 

'•  Which  you  did  never  see, 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein, 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be." 

She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand, 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room. 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood 

Whilst  one  drop  of  blood  would  run. 

She  blooded  him  in  the  vein  of  the  arm. 

And  locked  him  up  in  the  room  ; 
There  did  he  bleed  all  the  livelong  dav. 

Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  door, 

Thinking  for  to  be  gone  : 
He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 

And  he  could  not  get  down. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn. 
Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee  ; 

He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth, 
And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 

Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him. 

As  he  sat  under  the  tree, 
"  I  fear  my  master  is  near  dead. 

He  blows  so  wear i lee." 


•_>12 


ROBIN  HOOD'S  DEATH  AND  BURIAL. 


Then  Little  John  to  lair  Kirkley  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  flee  ; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkley  Hall, 

lie  broke  locks  two  or  three  ; 


rntil  lie  came  bold  Robin  to, 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee  : 
•'A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  Little  John. 

'■  Master,  I  I)e^-  of  thee." 

'•What  is  that  l)oon,"  (lUoUi  Robin  Hood, 
••  Liltle  Tohu.  thou  be-^s  of  me?"  — 
I  is.  to  burn  fail-  Kirkk-y  Hall. 
Vnd  all  thrir  minncric." 


ROBIN  HOOD'S   DEATH  AND  BURIAL.  213 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  That  boon  I'll  not  grant  thee  ; 
I  never  hiu't  woman  in  all  ni}"  life, 

Nor  man  in  woman's  companie. 

"  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time. 

Nor  at  my  end  shall  it  be. 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand. 

And  a  broad  arrow  I'll  let  flee, 

'•  And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up. 

There  shall  my  grave  digged  be. 
Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head, 

And  another  at  my  feet, 

"  And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side. 

Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 
And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green, 

Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

"  Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 

With  a  green  sod  under  my  head, 
That  they  may  sa}-,  when  I  am  dead, 

Here  lies  bold  Robin  Hood." 

These  words  thev  I'eadily  promised  him. 

Which  did  bold  Robin  please  ; 

And  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood. 

Near  to  the  fair  Kirkleys. 

Old  B.vllad. 


214  WHAT   THE   WINDS    BRIXG. 


WHAT   THE    ]VINDS  BRTYG. 


"  Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  cold?"  — 
"  The  North-wind, -Freddy  —  and  all  the  snow  ; 

And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  the  fold, 
When  the  North  besfins  to  blow/' 


"  Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  heat?"  — 
"  The  South-wind,  Katy  ;  and  corn  will  grow. 

And  peaches  redden,  for  von  to  eat. 
W^hen  the  South  bcsfins  to  blow." 


"  Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  rain?  "  — 
"  The  East-wind,  Arty  ;   and  farmers  know 

That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane. 
When  the  East  begfins  to  blow." 


"  Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  tlowers?"  — 

"  The  West-wind,  Bessy  ;  and  soft  and  low 

The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours, 

When  the  West  begins  to  blow." 

Stedman. 


IN  MARCH.  215 


IN  MARCH. 


The  cock  is  crowing, 

The  stream  is  flowing, 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 
The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun  ;    , 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  are  grazing. 

Their  heads  never  raising; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one  ! 

Like  an  army  defeated. 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 

The  ploughboy  is  whooping  —  anon  —  anon. 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains  ; 

There's  life  in  the  fountains ; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing ; 

The  rain  is  over  and  gone ! 

Wordsworth. 


216  IMARCH. 


MARCH. 


The  stormy  March  is  come  at  hist, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies; 

I  hear  the  riishing  of  the  blast 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild,  stormy  month  !  in  praise  of  thee  ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands,  again 

The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train. 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  simny  day. 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm. 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  Maw 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  tliosc  calm  skies. 

And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies. 

Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 

Bryant. 


CHILD  TO   A  ROSE. 


217 


CHILD    TO  A   ROSE. 


HITE  Rose,  talk  to  me  ; 

I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Why  do  you  say  no  word  to  me, 
Who  say  so  much  to  you  ? 
I'm  bringing  you  a  httle  rain  ; 

And  I  shall  be  so  proud, 
If,  when  you  feel  it  on  your  face, 

You  take  me  for  a  cloud. 
Here  I  come  so  softly, 

You  cannot  hear  me  walking  : 
If  I  take  you  by  surprise, 
I  may  catch  you  talking. 


White  Rose,  are  you  tired 

Of  staying  in  one  place.'' 
Do  you  ever  wish  to  see 

The  wild  flowers  face  to  face  } 
Do  you  know  the  woodbines. 

And  the  big  brown  crested  reeds  .^ 
Do  you  wonder  how  they  live 

So  friendly  with  the  weeds  "i 


218  CHILD  TO  A  KOSE. 

Have  you  any  work  to  do 

When  you've  finished  growing? 

Shall  you  teach  your  little  buds 
Pretty  ways  of  blowing? 


Do  you  ever  go  to  sleep  ? 

Once  I  woke  by  night 
And  looked  out  of  the  window, 

And  there  you  stood  moon-white,  — 
Moon-white  in  a  mist  of  darkness,  — 

With  never  a  word  to  say  ; 
But  you  seemed  to  move  a  little, 

And  then  I  ran  away. 
I  should  have  felt  no  wonder 

After  I  hid  my  head, 
If  I  had  found  you  standing 

Moon-white  beside  my  bed. 

White  Rose,  do  you  love  me? 

I  only  wish  you'd  say. 
I  would  work  hard  to  please  you, 

If  I  but  knew  the  way. 
It  seems  so  hard  to  be  loving, 

And  not  a  sign  to  see 
But  the  silence  and  the  sweetness 

For  all  as  well  as  me. 


THE   MOUNTAIN  AND   THE   SQUIRREL.  219 

I  think  voii  nearly  perfect, 

In  spite  of  all  your  scorns ; 
But,  White  Rose,  if  I  were  you, 

I  wouldn't  have  those  thorns. 

Poems  for  a  Child. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  AND    THE   SQUIRREL. 


The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel, 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "  Little  prig  I  " 

Bun  replied, 

"  You  are  doubtless  very  big, 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together 

To  make  up  a  year, 

And  a  sphere  : 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace  / 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry  ; 

I'll  not  deny  you  make 

A  very  pretty  squirrel  track. 

Talents  differ  ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut."  r,  \v.  Emerson. 


220  THE  WARY  TROUT. 


THE   WART  TROUT. 


Down  in  the  deep 

Dark  holes  I  keep, 

And  diere  in  the  noontide  I  float  and  sleep 

By  the  hemlock  log, 

And  the  springing  bog, 

And  the  arching  alders  I  lie  incog. 

The  angler's  fly 

Comes  dancing  by, 

But  never  a  moment  it  cheats  my  eye  ; 

For  the  wary  trout 

Is  not  such  a  lout 

As  to  be  by  a  wading  boy  pulled  out. 

King  of  the  brook. 

No  fisher's  hook 

Fills  me  with  dread  of  the  toiling  cook  ; 

But  here  I  lie 

And  laugh  as  they  try  ; 

Shall  I  bite  at  their  bait?     No,  no  :  not  I. 

But  when  the  streams, 
With  moonli<rht  beams. 


BOYS'   PLAY   AND   GIRLS'   PLAY.  221 

Sparkle  all  silver  and  starlight  gleams, 

Then,  then  look  out 

For  the  wary  trout ; 

For  he  springs  and  dimples  the  shallows  about, 

While  the  tired  angler  dreams. 

BOrS'   PLAT  AND    GIRLS'   PLAT. 


"  Now,  let's  have  a  game  of  play, 
Lucy,  Jane,  and  little  May. 
I  will  be  a  grizzly  bear. 
Prowling  here  and  prowling  there, 
Sniffing  round  and  round  about. 
Till  I  find  }  on  children  out ; 
And  my  dreadful  den  shall  be 
Deep  within  the  hollow  tree." 

''Oh,  no!  please  i^ot,  Robert,  dear. 
Do  not  be  a  grizzly  bear : 
Little  May  was  half  afraid 
When  she  heard  the  noise  vou  made. 
Roaring  like  a  lion  strong, 
Just  now  as  you  came  along : 
And  she'll  scream  and  start  to-night. 
If  vou  o-ive  her  any  frii^lit." 


222  BOYS'  PLAY  AND   GIRLS'  PLAY. 

"Well,  then,  I  will  be  a  fox  ! 
You  shall  be  the  hens  and  cocks, 
In  the  farmer's  apple-tree, 
Crowing  out  so  lustily. 
I  will  softly  creep  this- way  — 
Peep  —  and  pounce  upon  my  prey  ; 
And  I'll  bear  you  to  my  den  — 
Where  the  fern  grows  in  the  glen." 

"  Oh,  no,  Robert !  you're  so  strong, 
While  you're  dragging  us  along 
I'm  afraid  you'll  tear  our  frocks. 
We  won't  play  at  hens  and  cocks."  — 

"  If  you  won't  play  fox  or  bears, 
I'm  a  dog,  and  you  be  hares ; 
Then  you'll  only  have  to  run. 
Girls  are  never  up  to  fun." 

"  You've  vour  play,  and  we  have  ours. 

Go  and  climb  the  trees  again. 

I,  and  little  IMav,  and  Jane, 
Are  so  happy  with  our  flowers. 

Jane  is  culling  foxglove  bells, 
May  and  I  are  making  posies. 

And  we  want  to  search  the  dells 
For  the  latest  summer  roses." 


Mrs.  Hawtrey. 


JOHN  GILPIN.  223 


JOHN    GILPIN. 


John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown, 
A  train-band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"  Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"  To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  '  Bell'  at  Edmonton, 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"  Mv  sister,  and  my  sister's  child. 
Myself  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied.  "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one  ; 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear, 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 


224 


JOHN   GILPIN. 


"  I  am  a  linen-draper  bold 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  the  calender 


Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Qiioth  Airs.  Gilpin,  "That's 

well  said  ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 

!.*       We  will  be   furnished  with 

our  o\\ii, 

Which  is  both  bright   and 

^y^^f   ('^f'^fPyj.     ^  clear." 


John  Gilpin  kissed  his  lo\ing  wife, 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  fruual  mind. 


JOHN   GILPIN.  ■     225 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  oft' the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in,  — 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels, 

Were  never  folks  so  glad  ! 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride. 

But  soon  came  down  again  :  — 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time. 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 
Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 


226  JOHN  GILPIN. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind, 
When  Betty,  screaming,  came  downstairs, 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind  '.  " 

"  Good  hick  !  "  quoth  he  ;   "  yet  bring  it  me, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise." 

Now,  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 
Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear, 

Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side, 

To  make  his  balance  true.  .  ^  , 

Then  over  all.  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe. 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat. 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  sec  him  mounted  once  again 

Upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowh'  pacing  o'er  the  stones 

With  caution  and  <rood  heed. 


JOHN   GILPIX.  227 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet, 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

''  So  !   fair  and  softly,  John,"  he  cried  ; 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain  : 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  ciu'b  and  rein. 

So,  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

His  horse,  which  never  in  that  sort 

Had  handled  been  before, 
What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 

Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought, 

Awav  went  hat  and  wig : 
He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 

The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly 

Like  streamer  long  and  gay, 
Till  loop  and  button,  failing  both. 

At  last  it  flew  away. 


228  JOHN   GILPIN. 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung,  — 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 
As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all, 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "  Well  done  !  " 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he.'' 
His  fame  soon  spread  around  : 

"  He  carries  weight !  he  rides  a  race  ! 
'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  !  " 

And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 
,  'Twas  wonderful  to  view, 

How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 

His  reeking  head  full  low. 
The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 

Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 


JOHN   GILPIN.  229 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 

With  leathern  girdle  braced  ; 
For  all  might  see  the  bottle-necks 

ytill  dangling  at  his  waist. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 

These  gambols  he  did  plav, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 

Of  Edmonton  so  gay  ; 

And  there  he  threw  the  AVash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Just  like  unto  a  trundling  mop, 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  espied 
Her  tender  husband,  wond'ring  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

"  vStop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  !     Here's  the  house," 

They  all  aloud  did  cry  ; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  arc  tired."  — 

Said  Gilpin,  "  So  am  I." 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 

Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 
For  why.-*  —  his  owner  had  a  house 

Full  ten  miles  oft',  at  Ware. 


230  JOHN  GILPIN. 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 

Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 
So  did  he  fly  —  wiiich  brings  me  to 

The  middle  of  my  song. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  out  of  breath. 

And  sore  against  his  will, 
Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 

His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 

His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 
Laid  down  his  j^ipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 

And  thus  accosted  him  : 

"  What  news.-*  what  news.''  your  tidings  tell 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall  ; 
Say  why  bareheaded  }-oii  are  come, 

Or  wdiy  you  come  at  all  ?  " 

Now,  Gilpin  had  a  j)lcasant  wit. 

And  loved  a  timely  joke. 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 

In  merry  guise  he  spoke  : 

"  I  came  because  vour  horse  would  come; 

And,  if  I  well  forebode. 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here  — 

They  are  upon  the  road." 


JOHN   GILPIN.  231 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word, 

But  to  the  house  went  in  ; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig,  — 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear,  — 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit : 
"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"  But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  ""It  is  my  wedding-day, 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  ^Vare." 

So,  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine  ; 
"Twas  ^ov  your  pleasure  you  came  here, 

You  shall  2:0  back  for  ?)u'jic." 


232 


JOHN  GILPIX. 


Ah,  luckless  speech  and  bootless  boast ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear  ; 
For  while  he  spake  a  braying  ass 

Did  sin^  most  loud  and  clear ; 


>^M»_-^  |h^  ^?. 


Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  ofi'  with  all  his  might. 

As  ho  had  done  before. 


JOHN  GILPm.  233 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig  ; 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 

For  why  ?  —  they  were  too  big. 

Now,  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 

Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

Slie  pulled' out  half-a-crown  : 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said 

That  drove  them  to  the  "Bell," 
"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain  ; 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 

And  gladly  would  have  done. 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more. 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  postboy  at  his  heels  ; 
The  postboy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering:  of  the  wheels. 


234  JOHN  r4iLPiN. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road. 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly 
With  postboy  scamp'iing  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry  : 

"  Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  a  highwayman  !  " 
Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 

And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit.  * 

And  now  the  turnpike-gates  again 

Flew  open  in  short  space. 
The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did  ;  and  won  it  too,  ' 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  tlie  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  li\e  he  : 
And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad. 

May  I  be  there  to  see  ! 


COWPER. 


COXTEXTED   .KUIX.  235 


CONTENTED    JOHN. 


One  honest  John  Tomkins,  a  hedger  and  ditcher, 
Although  he  was  poor,  did  not  want  to  be  richer  ; 
For  all  such  vain  wishes  in  him  were  prevented 
By  a  fortunate  liabit  of  being  contented. 

Though  cold  was  the  weather,  or  dear  was  the  food, 
John  never  was  found  in  a  murmuring  mood  ; 
For  this  he  was  constantly  heard  to  declare,  — 
What  he  could  not  prevent  he  would  cheerfully  bear. 

"  For  why  should  I  grumble  and  murmur?  "  he  said ; 
"  If  I  cannot  get  meat,  I  can  surely  get  bread  ; 
And,  though  fretting  may  make  my  calamities  deeper, 
Tt  can  never  cause  bread  and  cheese  to  be  cheaper." 

If  John  was  afflicted  with  sickness  or  pain, 

He  wished  himself  better,  but  did  not  complain. 

Nor  lie  down  and  fret  in  despondence  and  sorrow, 

But  said  that  he  hoped  to  be  better  to-morrow. 

If  any  one  wronged  him  or  treated  him  ill. 

Why,  John  was  good-natured  and  sociable  still ; 

For  he  said  that  revenging  the  injury  done 

Would  be  making  two  rogfues  when  there  need  be  but  one. 


236  I  WOULD   I  WERE   A  NOTE. 

And  thus  honest  John,  though  his  station  was  humble, 
Passed  tlirough  this  sad  world  without  even  a  grumble  ; 
And  I  wish  that  some  folks,  who  are  greater  and  richer. 
Would  copy  John  Tomkins.  the  hedger  and  ditcher. 

Jane  Taylor. 


D>«<C 


/   WOULD  I   WERE  A   NOTE. 


I  would  I  were  a  note 
From  a  sweet  bird's  throat ! 
I'd  float  on  forever, 
And  melt  away  never. 
I  would  I  were  a  note 
From  a  sweet  bird's  throat ! 

But  I  am  what  I  am  ! 

As  content  as  a  lamb, 

No  new  state  I'll  covet ; 

For  how  long  should  I  love  it.'' 

No,  I'll  be  what  1  am,— 

As  content  as  a  lamb  ! 


WISHING.  237 


WISHING. 


Ring-ting !     I  wish  I  were  a  Primrose, 

A  bright  yellow  Primrose,  blowing  in  the  spring ! 

The  stooping  boughs  above  me, 

The  wand'ring  bee  to  love  me. 
The  fern  and  moss  to  creep  across, 

And  the  Elm-tree  for  our  kinsf ! 


Nay  —  stav  !     I  wish  I  were  an  Elm-tree, 
A  great,  lofty  Elm-tree,  with  green  leaves  gay  ! 
The  winds  would  set  them  dancing. 
The  sun  and  moonshine  glance  in. 
The  birds  would  house  among  the  boughs, 
And  sweetlv  sing. 


Oh  —  no  !     I  wish  I  were  a  Robin, 

A  Robin  or  a  little  Wren,  everywhere  to  go  ; 

Through  forest,  field,  or  garden, 

And  ask  no  leave  or  pardon. 
Till  winter  comes  with  icv  thumbs 

To  ruflle  up  our  wing! 


^ 


-i^' 


\\  ell  — tell  '      Where  should  1  lly  to, 
^     *'\i    1      \\  heic  ii^o  to  sleep  in  the  dark  wood  or  dell , 


,J\  ^^-' 


Befoic  a  day  was  over, 
^  Home  conies  the  rover, 

"^       Foi  mothei's  Kiss — sweeter  this 
Than  any  other  thini[;-. 


AU-INCHAM. 


GIVE   ME  A  WISH.  239 


GIVE  ME  A    WISH. 


"  Be  my  fairy,  mother, 

Give  me  a  wish  a  day ; 
Something,  as  well  in  sunshine 

As  wlien  the  rain-drops  play." 

"  And  if  I  were  a  fairy, 

With  but  one  wish  to  spare, 

What  should  I  give  thee,  darling, 
To  quiet  thine  earnest  prayer.^" 

"  I'd  like  a  little  brook,  mother, 

All  for  my  ver}-  own, — 
To  laugh  all  day  among  the  trees, 

And  shine  on  the  mossy  stone  ; 

"  To  run  right  undcM'  the  window. 

And  sing  me  fast  asleep  ; 
With  soft  steps  and  a  tender  sound, 

Over  the  grass  to  crcej). 

"Make  it  run  down  the  hill,  mother, 
With  a  leap  like  a  tinkling  bell. 

So  fast  I  never  can  catch  the  leaf 
That  into  its  fountain  fell. 


240  UNDEll  TILE   tiKEENWOOD  TREE. 

"  Make  it  as  wild  as  a  frightened  bird, 

As  crazy  as  a  bee, 

With  a  noise  like  the  baby's  funny  laugh  :  — 

That's  the  brook  for  me  !  " 

Rose  Terry. 

UNDER    THE    GREENWOOD    TREE. 


Under  the  greenwood  tree. 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy. 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun. 

And  loves  to  lie  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  cats. 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets. 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  I 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  cnemv. 

But  \\intcr  and  rough  weather.  ' 

Shakespeare. 


WE   ARE   SEVEN.  241 


WB  ARE   SEVEN. 


A  simple  child 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 
What  should  it  knov/  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage-girl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air. 

And  she  was  wildly  clad  ; 
Her  eves  were  bright,  and  very  fair  — 

Her  bcautv  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid. 

How  many  may  you  be  ? "  — 
"  How  many?     .Seven  in  all,"  she  said. 

And  wond'ring  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  thev?     I  pray  you  tell. 

She  answered,  "  .Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 


242  WE  AEE   SEVEN. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  church-yaid  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother ; 
And,  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell. 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 
Yet  ye  are  seven.-*  —  I  pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be.'"' 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

' '  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 
Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie. 

Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  iny  little  maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  : 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  maid  replied. 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  arc  side  by  side. 

"My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit  — 

1  sit  and  sing  to  them. 


WE  ARE   SEVEX.  243 

"  And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fiiir. 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"  The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain, 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid  ; 

And  when  the  grass  was  dry 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"  And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go. 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"  How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 

"If  they  two  are  in  heaven.?" 
The  little  maiden  did  reply, 

"  O  master  !   we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  ;  these  two  are  dead  ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven  ! " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away  ;  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will. 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven  1  " 

WoRDSWURTH. 


244  TITE   STRANGE   CHILD'S   CHPJSTMAS. 


THE   STRANGE    CHILD'S   CHRISTMAS. 


There  went  a  stranger  child, 
As  Christmas  Eve  closed  in, 
Tlirough  the  streets  of  a  town,  whose  windows  shone 
With  the  warmth  and  light  within. 

It  stopped  at  every  house. 
The  Christmas-tree  to  see 
On  that  festive  night,  when  they  shone  so  bright  — 
And  it  sighed  right  bitterly. 

Then  wept  tlic  child,  and  said, 
"  This  night  hath  every  one 
A  Christmas-tree,  that  he  glad  may  be. 
And  I  alone  have  none. 

"  Ah  !   when  I  lived  at  liome. 
From  brother's  and  sister's  hand 
1  had  my  share,  but  there's  none  to  care 
For  me  in  the  stranger's  land. 

"  Will  no  one  let  mc  in? 
No  presents  I  would  crave. 
But  to  see  the  light,  and  the  tree  all  bright. 
And  the  gifts  that  others  have." 


THE   STRANGE   CHILD'S   CHRISTMAS. 


245 


At  shutter,  and  door,  and  gate 
It  knocks  with  a  timid  hand  ; 
But  none  will  mark  where  alone  in  the  dark 
That  little  child  doth  stand. 


Each  father  brings  home  gifts, 
Each  mother,  kind  and  mild  ; 
There  is  joy  for  all,  but  none  will  call 

And  welcome  that  lonely  child. 


246  THE   STRAXGE  CHILD'S  CIUIISTMAS. 

"  Mother  and  father  are  dead  — 

0  Jesus,  kind  and  dear, 

I've  no  one  now,  tliere  is  none  but  Thou, 
For  I  am  forgotten  here  !  " 

The  poor  child  rubs  its  hands, 

All  frozen  and  numbed  with  cold. 
And  (h'aws  round  its  head,  with  shrinking  dread. 
Its  garment  worn  and  old. 

But  see  —  another  Child 

Comes  gliding  through  the  street, 
And  its  robe  is  white,  in  its  hand  a  light; 
It  speaks,  and  its  voice  is  sweet: 

"  Once  on  this  earth  a  Child 

1  lived,  as  thou  livest  yet ; 
Though  all  turn  awa}^  from  thee  to-day, 

Yet  I  will  not  forget. 

"Each  child,  with  equal  love, 
I  hold  beneath  my  care,  — 
In  the  street's  dull  gloom,  in  the  lighteil  room, 
I  am  with  them  everywhere. 

"  Here,  in  the  darkness  dim, 
I'll  show  thee,  child,  thv  tree  ; 
Those  that  spread  their  light  through  the  chambers  bright 
So  lovclv  scarce  can  be." 


THE   STRANGE   CHILD'S  CHEISTMAS.  247 

And  with  its  white  hand  points 
The  Christ-child  to  the  sky, 
And,  lo  !  afar,  with  each  lamp  a  star, 
A  tree  gleamed  there  on  high. 

So  far,  and  yet  so  near, 
The  light  shone  overhead  ; 
And  all  was  well,  for  the  child  could  tell 
For  whom  that  tree  was  spread- 
It  gazed  as  in  a  dream, 

And  angels  bent  and  smiled, 
And  with  outstretched  hand  to  that  brighter  land 
They  carried  the  stranger  child. 

And  the  little  one  went  home 
With  its  Saviour  Christ  to  stay. 
All  the  hunger  and  cold  and  the  pain  of  old 
Forgotten  and  past  away. 

From  the  Germ  ax. 


248  A   8T0KY   BY   THE   ITEE. 


A    STORT  BY  THE   FIRE. 


Children  love  to  hear  of  children  ! 

I  will  tell  of  a  little  child 
Who  dwelt  alone  with  his  mother 

By  the  edge  of  a  forest  wild. 
One  summer  eve  from  the  forest, 

Late,  late,  down  the  grassv  track, 
The  child  came  back  with  lingering  step. 

And  looks  oft  turning  back. 

"  O  mother  !  "  he  said.  "  in  the  forest 

I  have  met  with  a  little  child  ; 
All  day  he  played  with  me  —  all  day 

He  talked  with  me  and  smiled. 
At  last  he  left  me  alone,  but  then 

He  gave  me  this  rosebud  red  ; 
And  said  he  would  come  to  me  again 

When  all  its  leaves  were  spread. 

"  I  will  put  my  rosebud  in  a  glass, 
I  will  watch  it  night  and  day. 

Dear  little  friend,  wilt  thou  come  again  ? 
Wilt  thou  come  by  my  side  to  play? 


A  STORY  BY  THE   FlliE.  249 

I  will  seek  for  strawberries  —  the  best 

Of  all  shall  be  for  thee  ; 
I  will  show  thee  the  eggs  in  the  linnet's  nest 

None  know  about  but  me." 

At  morn,  beside  the  w'indow-sill, 

Awoke  a  bird's  clear  song  ; 
But  all  wMthin  the  house  was  still,  — 

The  child  was  sleeping  long. 
The  mother  w'ent  to  his  little  room,  — 

With  all  its  leaves  outspread 
She  saw  a  rose  in  fullest  bloom  ; 

And,  in  the  little  bed, 
A  child  that  did  not  breathe  nor  stir,  — 

A  little  happy  child.  — 
Who  had  met  his  little  friend  again, 

And  in  the  meeting  smiled. 

Dora  Greenwell. 


CASAB/ANCA. 


The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  him  had  fled  ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  c)'er  the  dead; 


CASABIANCA.  251 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

^s  born  to  rule  the  storm  ; 
A  creature  of  lieroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  childlike  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on  —  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word  ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "  Sa}',  father!  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done." 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father !  "  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  ;  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied. 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death. 

In  still,  but  brave  despair  ; 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father  !  must  I  stay  .^  " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud. 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 


252  TOM  BOWLING. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild. 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high. 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound  — 
The  boy  —  oh  !  where  was  he  ? 

Ask  of  the  winds,  that  far  around 
With  fragments  strewed  the  sea, 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair. 
That  well  had  borne  their  part ; 

But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 
Was  that  young  faithful  heart ! 

Mrs.  Hemans. 
TO  J/    BOWLING. 


Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew  ; 
No  more  he'll  hear  the  tempest  howling. 

For  Death  has  broached  him  to  ; 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

Ilis  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 
Faithful  below^  he  did  his  duty. 

But  now  he's  uone  aloft. 


BLACK-EYED   SUSAN.  253 

Tom  never  from  liis  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare  ; 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted, 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair ; 
And  then  he'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly, 

Ah,  many's  the  time  and  oft ! 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melanchol}', 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft.  ' 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together. 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches/ 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doffed  ; 
For  though  his  body's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft. 


DiBDIN. 


BLACK-ETED    SUSAN. 


All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind. 

When  Black-eyed  Susan  came  on  board, 
"  Oh,  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find.? 

Tell  me,  ye  Jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 

Does  my  sweet  William  sail  among  your  crew.?" 


254  BLACK-EYED   SUSAN. 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard, 

Rocked  by  the  billows  to  and  iVo, 
Soon  as  the  well-known  voice  he  heard, 

He  sighed  and  cast  his  eyes  below  ; 
The  cord  flies  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 
And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

"  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear. 

My  vows  shall  always  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  oft'  that  falling  tear,  — 

We  only  part  to  meet  again  ; 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds,  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

"Believe  not  what  the  landsmen  say. 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind  ; 

They  tell  thee  sailors,  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find  ;  — 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  you  so, 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go." 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word. 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosoms  spread  ; 

No  longer  she  must  stay  on  board,  — 

They  kissed,  she  sighed  —  he  hung  his  head. 

Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land, 

"Adieu  !"  she  cried,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

Gay. 


THE   SANDS   OF  DEE. 


25^ 


THE   SANDS   OF  DEE. 


"Sft  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
.;--V^   <v_>-^         Across  the  sands  o'  Dee." 
^j^^         The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 
^^m  And  all  alone  went  she. 


The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand. 

And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand. 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land 

And  never  home  came  she. 


Oh,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair  — 

And  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair, 

Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 

Among  the  stakes  o'  Dee." 


256  A  WET   SHEET   AXD   A   FEOWES'G    SEA. 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolHng  foam. 

The  cruel,  crawHng  foam. 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam. 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home. 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

KlNCSLEY. 


oJOic 


A  WBT  SHEET  AND   A   FLOWING    SEA. 


A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail. 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  mv  boys ! 

While,  like  the  eagle  free. 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

"  Oh,  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  !  " 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  oh,  give  me  the  swelling  breeze. 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ; 


T?n-:   ]?AY   OF    BISCAY.  257 

And  Nvhite  waves' heaving  high,  my  boys, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free  ! 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  von  horned  moon, 

And  Hghtning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
And  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys  ! 

The  lightning  flashing  free, 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Cunningham. 

ooXKoo 

THE   BA7'  OF  BIS  CAT. 


Loud  roared  the  dreadful  thinider, 

The  rain  a  deluge  showers. 
The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 

By  lightning's  vivid  powers  ; 
The  night  both  drear  and  dark, 

Our  poor  devoted  bark 
There  she  lay  till  next  day, 

In  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O  ! 


258  THE   BAY   OF   BISCAY. 

Now  dashed  upon  the  billow, 

Our  opening  timbers  creak  ; 
Each  fears  a  watery  pillow,  — 

None  stops  the  dreadful  leak  ; 
To  cling  to  slippery  shrouds 

Each  breathless  seaman  crowds. 
As  she  lay,  till  the  day, 

In  the  Ba}'  of  Biscay,  O  ! 

At  length  the  wished-for  morrow 

Broke  through  the  hazy  sky  ; 
Absorbed  in  silent  sorrow, 

Each  heaved  a  bitter  sigh  ; 
The  dismal  wreck  to  view 

Struck  horror  to  the  crew. 
As  she  lay,  on  that  day, 

In  the  Bav  of  Biscay,  O  ! 


Her  yielding  timbers  sever, 

Her  pitchy  seams  are  rent, 
When  Heaven,  all  bounteous  ever. 

Its  boundless  merc^■  sent ; 
A  sail  in  sight  appears. 

We  hail  her  with  three  cheers : 
Now  we  sail,  with  the  gale. 

From  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  O! 


Cherry. 


THE  WIVES  OF  BRIXHAM.  259 


THE     WIVES    OF    BRIXHAM. 


A    TRUE    STORY. 


The  merrv  boats  of  Brixham         f 

Go  out  to  search  the  seas  ; 
A  staunch  and  sturdy  fleet  are  they, 

Who  love  a  swinging  breeze  ; 
And  before  the  woods  of  Devon, 

And  the  silver  clifts  of  Wales, 
You  may  see,  when  summer  evenings  fall. 

The  light  upon  their  sails. 


But  when  the  year  grows  darker, 

And  gray  winds  hunt  the  foam. 
They  go  back  to  Little  Brixham, 

And  ply  their  toil  at  home. 
And  thus  it  chanced  one  winter's  night, 

When  a  storm  began  to  roar. 
That  all  the  men  were  out  at  sea. 

And  all  the  wives  on  shore. 


260  11  IK    WIVES   OF   BKIXHAM. 

Then  as  the  wind  grew  fiercer, 

The  women's  cheeks  grew^  white.  — 
It  was  fiercer  in  the  twilight. 

And  fiercest  in  the  night. 
The  strong  clonds  set  themselves  hke  ice, 

^Vithout  a  star  to  melt : 
The  blackness  of  the  darkness 

Was  darkness  to  be  felt. 


The  old  men  they  were  anxious, 

They  dreaded  what  the}-  knew  ; 
What  do  vou  think  the  women  did.-* 

Love  taught  them  wdiat  to  do  ! 
Outspake  a  wnfe,  "  We've  beds  at  home, 

We'll  l)urn  them  for  a  light.  — 
Give  us  the  men,  and  the  bare  ground, 

We  want  no  more  to-night." 


Thev  took  the  grandame's  blanket. 

Who  shivered  and  bade  them  go 
They  took  the  baby's  pillow. 

Who  could  not  say  them  no  ; 
And  they  heaped  a  great  fire  on  the  pier, 

And  knew  not  all  the  while 
If  thev  were  heaping  a  bonfire. 

Or  onl\  a  funeral  pile. 


— —ll^lfel' 


W  tl 


^1*=^ 


And  fed  with  precious  food, the  flame 

Shone  bravely  on  the  black, 
Till  a  cry  rang  through  the  people. 

"A  boat  is  coming  back  !  " 
Staggering  diml).  thiough  the  fog 

Come  shapes  of  feai  and  doubt. 
But  \\  lien  the  (list  pi  o\\  sti  ikes  the  piei 

Cannot  \ou  heai  them  shout? 


262  THE   WIVES   OF  BRIXIIAM. 

Then  all  along  the  breath  of  flame, 

Dark  figures  shrieked  and  ran, 
With,  •'  Child,  here  comes  your  father  !  '' 

Or,  "  Wife,  is  this  your  man?" 
And  faint  feet  touch  the  welcome  shore, 

And  wait  a  little  while  ; 
And  kisses  drop  from  frozen  lips. 

Too  tired  to  speak  or  smile. 

So,  one  by  one,  thev  struggled  in 

All  that  the  sea  would  spare  : 
We  will  not  reckon  through  our  tears 

The  names  that  were  not  there  ; 
But  some  went  home  without  a  bed, 

When  all  the  talc  was  told. 
Who  were  too  cold  with  sorrow 

To  know  the  night  was  cold. 

And  this  is  what  the  men  must  do 

Who  work  in  wind  and  foam  ; 
And  this  is  what  the  ^^■omcn  bear 

Who  watch  for  them  at  home. 
So  when  you  see  a  Brixham  boat 

Go  out  to  face  the  gales. 
Think  of  the  love  that  travels 

Like  light  upon  her  sails  ! 

Poems  for  a  Child. 


THE  NORTHERN  SEAS.  263 


THE  NORTHERN   SEAS. 


Up  !  up  !  let  us  a  voyage  take  ; 

Why  sit  we  here  at  ease  ? 
Find  us  a  vessel  tight  and  snug, 

Bound  for  the  Northern  Seas. 

I  long  to  see  the  northern  lights 
With  their  rushing  splendors  fly, 

Like  living  things  with  flaming  wings, 
Wide  o'er  the  wondrous  sky. 

I  long  to  see  those  icebergs  vast, 
With  heads  all  crowned  with  snow, 

Whose  green  roots  sleep  in  the  awful  deep, 
Two  hundred  fathoms  low. 

I  long  to  hear  tiie  thundering  crash 

Of  their  terrific  fall. 
And  the  echoes  from  a  thousand  clifls 

Like  lonely  voices  call. 

There  shall  we  see  the  fierce  white  bear, 

The  sleepy  seals  aground. 
And  the  spouting  whales  that  to  and  fro 

Sail  with  a  dreary  sound. 


There  may  \vc  IrcaU  i>n  dcpil 
That  the  liairy  mammoth  liidc  ; 

Perfect  as  when,  in  times  of  old. 
The  mighty  creature  died. 


im:^: 


And  while  the  unsctting  sun  shines  on  j  ^- 
Through  the  still  heaven's  deep  blue, 

We'll  traverse  the  azure  waves,  the  IukK 
Of  the  dread  sea-horse  to  view.      ^ 


i^' 


'■»<  :_> 


THE   NORTHERN   SEAS.  265 

We'll  pass  the  shores  of  solemn  pine, 
Where  wolves  and  black  bears  prowl  ; 

And  away  to  the  rocky  isles  of  mist, 
To  rouse  the  northern  fowl. 

Up  there  shall  start  ten  thousand  wings 

With  a  rustling,  whistling  din  ; 
Up  shall  the  auk  and  fulmar  start, 

All  but  the  fat  penguin. 

And  there  in  the  wastes  of  the  silent  sky, 

With  the  silent  earth  below. 
We  shall  see  far  oft'  to  his  lonely  rock 

The  lonely  eagle  go. 

Then  softly,  softly  will  we  tread 

By  inland  streams,  to  see 

Where  the  pelican  of  the  silent  North 

Sits  there  all  silently. 

Mary  tlowiTT. 


266  wrs-.sTAXi.EY. 


WINSTANLET. 


Winstanley's  deed,  you  kindly  folk. 

With  it  I  fill  my  lay. 
And  a  nobler  man  ne'er  walked  the  world. 

Let  his  name  be  what  it  may. 

The  good  ship  Snowdrop  tarried  long ; 

Up  at  the  vane  looked  he  ; 
"  Belike,"  he  said,  for  the  wind  had  dropped, 

"  She  lieth  becalmed  at  sea." 

The  lovely  ladies  locked  within, 

x'Vnd  still  would  each  one  say, 
''  Good  mercer,  be  the  ships  come  up.'"  — 

But  still  he  answered,  "  Nay." 

Then  stepped  two  mariners  down  the  street, 

With  looks  of  grief  and  fear  : 
"  Now,  if  Winstanley  be  your  name, 

We  bring  you  evil  cheer  ! 

"  For  the  good  ship  Snowdrop  struck.  — she  struck 

On  the  rock,  — the  Eddystone. 
And  down  she  went  with  threescore  men, 

We  two  being  left  alone. 


WINSTANLEY.  267 

"  Down  in  the  deep  with  freight  and  crew, 

Past  any  help  she  Hes, 
And  never  a  bale  has  come  to  shore 

Of  all  thy  merchandise." 

"  For  cloth  o'  gold  and  comely  frieze." 

Winstanley  said  and  sighed, 
"  For  velvet  coif,  or  costly  coat. 

They  fathoms  deep  may  bide. 

"  O  thou  brave  skipper,  blithe  and  kind, 

O  mariners,  bold  and  true. 
Sorry  at  heart,  right  sorry  am  I, 

A-thinking  of  yours  and  you. 

"  Many  long  days  Winstanley's  breast 

Shall  feel  a  weight  within. 
For  a  waft  of  wind  he  shall  be  'feared, 

And  trading  count  but  sin. 

"  To  him  no  more  it  shall  be  joy 

To  pace  the  cheerful  town, 
And  see  the  lovelv  ladies  gay 

Step  on  in  velvet  gown." 

The  Snowdrop  sank  at  Lammas  tide, 

All  imder  the  veastv  spra}- ; 
On  Christmas  Eve  the  brig  Content 

Was  also  cast  away. 


268  WINSTANLEY. 

He  little  thought  o'  New  Year's  night. 

vSo  jolly  as  he  sat  then, 
While  drank  the  toast  and  praised  the  roast 

The  round-faced  Aldermen.  — - 

He  little  thought  on  Plymouth  Hoe, 

With  every  rising  tide, 
How  the  wave  washed  in  his  sailor  lads, 

And  laid  them  side  by  side. 

There  stepped  a  stranger  to  the  board  : 
"  Now,  stranger,  who  be  ye?  " 

He  looked  to  right,  he  looked  to  left, 
And  "  Rest  you  merry,"  quoth  he  ; 

"For  vou  did  not  see  the  brig  go  down. 

Or  ever  a  storm  had  l)lown  : 
For  Nou  did  not  see  the  white  wave  rear 

At  the  rock,  —  the  Eddy  stone. 

'•  She  drave  at  the  rock  \\  ith  sternsails  set; 

Crash  went  the  masts  in  twain  ; 
She  staggered  back  with  her  mortal  blow, 

Then  leaped  at  it  again. 

"  There  rose  a  great  crv,  bitter  and  strong  ; 

The  misty  moon  looked  out ! 
And  the  water  swarmed  with  seamen's  heads. 

And  the  wreck  was  strewed  about. 


"VVEN^STANLEY.  269 

"  I  saw  her  mainsail  lash  the  sea, 

As  I  clung  to  the  rock  alone  ; 
Then  she  heeled  over,  and  down  she  went, 

And  sank  like  any  stone. 

"  She  was  a  fair  ship,  but  all's  one  ! 

For  naught  could  bide  the  shock."  — 
"  I  will  take  horse,"  Winstanley  said, 

"  And  see  this  deadly  rock. 

"  For  never  again  shall  bai"k  o'  mine 

Sail  o'er  the  windy  sea. 
Unless,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  for  this 

Be  found  a  remedy." 

Winstanley  rode  to  Plymouth  town 

All  in  the  sleet  and  the  snow  ; 
And  he  looked  around  on  shore  and  sound, 

As  he  stood  on  Plymouth  Hoe. 

Till  a  pillar  of  spray  rose  far  away, 

And  shot  up  its  stately  head. 
Reared,  and  fell  over,  and  reared  again  : 

"  Tis  the  rock  !  the  rock  !  "  he  said. 

Straight  to  the  Mayor  he  took  his  way  : 
"  Good  Master  Mavor,"  quoth  he, 

"  I  am  a  mercer  of  London  town, 
And  owner  of  vessels  thi'ee. 


270  WINSTANLEY. 

"  But  for  your  rock  of  dark  renown, 
I  had  five  to  track  the  mahi."  — 

"  You  are  one  of  many,"  the  old  Mayor  said, 
"  That  of  the  rock  complain. 

"  An  ill  rock,  mercer  !  vour  words  ring  riglit. 

Well  with  my  thoughts  they  chime. 
For  mv  two  sons  to  the  world  to  come 

It  sent  before  their  time." 

"  Lend  me  a  lighter,  good  Master  Mayor, 
And  a  score  of  shipwrights  free  ; 

For  I  think  to  raise  a  lantern  tower 
On  this  rock  o'  destiny." 

The  old  Mayor  laughed,  but  sighed  also  : 
"  Ah,  youth,"  quoth  he,  "  is  rash  ; 

Sooner,  young  man,  thou'lt  root  it  out 
From  the  sea  that  doth  it  lash. 

''  Who  sails  too  near  its  jagged  teeth, 

He  shall  have  evil  lot : 
For  the  calmest  seas  that  tumble  there 

Froth  like  a  boiling  pot. 

"  And  the  heavier  seas  few  look  on  nigh. 
But  straight  they  lay  him  dead  ; 

A  seventy-gun-ship,  sir! — thev'll  shoot 
Higher  than  lier  mast-head. 


WINSTAXLEY.  271 

"  Oh,  beacons  sighted  in  the  dark, 

They  are  right  welcome  things, 
And  pitch-pots  flaming  on  the  shore 

Show  fair  as  angel  wings.  ■ 

"  Hast  gold  in  hand?  then  light  the  land, 

It  'longs  to  thee  and  me  ; 
But  let  alone  the  deadly  rock 

In  God  Almighty's  sea." 

Yet  said  he,  "  Nay,  —  I  must  away, 

On  the  rock  to  set  m}-  feet ; 
My  debts  are  paid,  my  will  I  made. 

Or  ever  I  did  thee  greet. 

"  If  I  must  die,  then  let  me  die 

By  the  rock,  and  not  elsewhere  ; 
If  I  may  live,  oh  let  me  live 

To  mount  my  light-house  stair." 

The  old  Mavor  looked  him  in  the  foce. 

And  answered,  "  Have  thy  way  ; 
Thy  heart  is  stout,  as  if  round  about 

It  was  braced  with  an  iron  stay  : 

"  Have  thy  will,  mercer  !   choose  thy  men, 

Put  oft^  from  the  storm-rid  shore  ; 
God  with  thee  be,  or  I  shall  see 

Thv  face  and  theirs  no  more." 


272  WINSTANLEY. 

Heavily  plunged  the  breaking  wave, 
And  foam  lievv  up  the  lea  ; 

Morning  and  even  the  drifted  snow 
Fell  into  the  dark  gray  sea. 

Winstanley  chose  him  men  and  gear ; 

He  said,  "  My  time  I  waste," 
For  the  seas  ran  seething  up  the  shore. 

And  the  wrack  drave  on  in  haste. 

But  twenty  days  he  waited  and  more, 

Pacing  the  strand  alone, 
Or  ever  he  sat  his  manly  foot 

On  the  rock,  —  the  Eddystone. 

Then  he  and  the  sea  began  their  strife, 
And  worked  \vith  power  and  might ; 

Whatever  the  man  reared  up  by  day 
The  sea  broke  down  by  night. 

He  wrought  at  cbl)  with  bar  and  beam. 
He  sailed  to  shore  at  How  ; 

And  at  his  side,  by  that  same  tide, 
Came  bar  and  beam  also. 

"  Give  in,  give  in,"  the  old  Mayor  cried, 
"  Or  thou  wilt  rue  the  day."  — 

''  Yonder  he  goes,"  the  townsfolk  sighed, 
"  But  the  rock  will  have  its  way. 


WINSTAXLEY. 


273 


"  For  all  his  looks  that  are  so  stout, 
And  his  speeches  brave  and  fair, 

He  may  wait  on  the  wind,  wait  on  the  wave, 
But  he'll  build  no  light-house  there." 

In  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

The  rock  his  arts  did  flout, 
Through  the  long  days  and  the  short  days. 

Till  all  that  vear  ran  out. 

With  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

Another  year  came  in  : 
''  To  take  his  wage,"  the  workmen  said, 

"  We  almost  count  a  sin." 


Now  March  was  gone,  came  April  in. 
And  a  sea-fog  settled  down. 

And  forth  sailed  he  on  a  glassy  sea, 
He  sailed  from  Plvmouth  town. 


274  WIXSTANLEY. 

With  men  and  stores  he  put  to  sea, 

As  he  wa«  wont  to  do  : 
They  showed  in  the  fog  hkc  ghosts  full  faint.  - 

A  ghostly  craft  and  crew. 

And  the  sea-fog  hiy  and  waxed  alway, 
For  a  long  eight  days  and  more  ; 

"  God  help  our  men,"  quoth  the  women  then  ; 
"For  they  bide  long  from  shore." 

They  paced  tlie  Hoe  in  doubt  and  dread  ; 

"Where  may  our  mariners  be.'" 
But  the  brooding  fog  lay  soft  as  down 

Over  the  cjuict  sea. 

A  Scottish  schooner  made  the  port. 

The  thirteenth  day  at  e'en  : 
"  As  I  am  a  man,"  the  captain  cried, 

"  A  strange  sight  I  have  seen  : 

"  And  a  strange  sound  heard,  my  masters  all. 

At  sea,  in  the  fog  and  the  rain. 
Like  shipwrights'  hammers  tapping  low, 

Then  loud,  then  low  again. 

"And  a  statcl}-  house  one  instant  showed, 
Through  a  rift  on  the  vessel's  lea  ; 

What  manner  of  creatures  may  be  those 
That  build  upon  the  sea.''" 


Then  sighed  the  folk.  ••  The  Loul 
be  praised  !  " 
And    they    flocked    to    the    bhoie 
amain  : 
All     over    the     Hoe     that    livelong 
night, 
Many  stood  out  in  the  rain. 


?  "^5^ 


27G  "WmSTiVXLEY. 

It  ceased  ;   and  the  red  sun  reared  liis  head, 
And  die  rolling  fog  did  flee  ; 

And,  lo  !   in  the  ofling  faint  and  far 
Winstanley's  house  at  sea  ! 

In  fair  weather  Avilh  mirth  and  cheer 

The  stately  tower  uprose  ; 
In  foul  weather  with  hunger  and  cold 

They  were  content  to  close  ; 

Till  up  the  stair  Winstanlev  went. 

To  fire  the  wick  afar ; 
And  Plymouth  in  the  silent  night 

Looked  out  and  saw  her  star. 

Winstanley  set  his  foot  ashore  ; 

Said  he,  "  My  work  is  done  ; 
I  hold  it  strong  to  last  as  long 

As  aught  beneath  the  sun. 

"  But  if  it  fail,  as  fail  il  may, 
Borne  down  \vith  ruin  and  rout. 

Another  than  1  shall  rear  it  high, 
And  brace  the  girders  stout. 

"A  better  than  I  sliall  rear  it  high. 

For  now  the  way  is  plain  ; 
And  though  I  were  dead,"  Winstanley  said, 

"The  liofht  would  shine  again. 


WINSTANLEY.  277 

"  Yet  were  I  fain  still  to  remain, 

Watch  in  mv  tower  to  keep, 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest  night 

That  e\er  did  move  the  deep  ; 

"  And  if  it  stood,  why  then  'twere  good. 

Amid  their  tremulous  stirs, 
To  count  each  stroke  when  the  mad  waves  broke. 

For  cheers  of  mariners^ 

"  But  if  it  fell,  then  this  were  well. 

That  I  should  with  it  fall ; 
Since,  for  my  part,  I  have  built  my  heart 

In  the  courses  of  its  wall. 

•'  Ay  1  I  were  fain,  long  to  remain. 

Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep, 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep." 

With  that  Winstanley  went  his  way. 

And  left  the  rock  renowned. 
And  summer  and  winter  his  pilot  star 

Hung  bright  o'er  Plymouth  .Sound. 

But  it  fell  out,  fell  out  at  last. 

That  he  would  put  to  sea, 
To  scan  once  more  his  light-house  to^ver 

On  the  rock  o'  destinv. 


278  WLNSTAALEY. 

And  the  winds  broke,  and  the  storm  broke, 

And  wrecks  came  phniging  in  : 
None  in  the  town  that  night  la}-  down 

Or  sleep  or  rest  to  win. 

The  great  mad  waves  were  rolling  graves, 

And  each  flung  up  its  dead  ; 
The  seething  flow  was  white  below, 

And  black  the  sky  o'erhcad. 

And  when  the  dawn,  the  dull,  gray  dawn, 

Brt)ke  on  the  trembling  town. 
And  men  looked  soutli  to  the  harbor  mouth. 

The  light-house  tower  was  down. 

Down  in  the  deep  where  he  doth  sleep, 

Who  made  it  shine  afar, 
And  then  in  the  night  that  ch^owned  its  light. 

Set,  with  his  pilot  star. 

Many  fair  tombs  in  the  glorious  glooms 

At  ^\x^stm luster  they  show  ; 
The  brave  and  the  great  lie  there  in  state  : 

Winstanley  lieth  low. 

Jean   Lngelow. 


THE    DEATH    OF   ^■EESO^■.  279 


THE   DEATH   OF  NELSON. 


'Twas  in  Trafalgar's  bay 
We  saw  the  Frenchmen  lay  ; 

Each  heart  was  bounding  then. 
We  scorned  the  foreign  yoke, 
Our  ships  were  British  oak, 

And  hearts  of  oak  our  men. 
Our  Nelson  marked  them  on  the  wave, 
Three  cheers  our  gallant  seamen  gave, 

Nor  thought  of  home  and  beautw 
Along  the  line  this  signal  ran,  - — 
"  England  expects  that  every  man 

This  day  will  do  his  duty." 


And  now  the  cannons  roar 
Along  the  affrighted  shore  ; 

Brave  Nelson  led  the  way  : 
His  ship  the  Victory  named ; 
Long  be  that  victory  famed  ! 

For  victory  crowned  tlie  day. 


280  THE   DEATH  OF  NELSON. 

But  dearly  was  that  conquest  bought, 
Too  well  the  gallant  hero  fought 

For  England,  home,  and  beauty. 
He  cried,  as  'midst  the  fire  he  ran,  — 
"England  shall  find  that  every  man 

This  day  will  do  his  duty  !  " 


At  last  the  fatal  wound 
Which  shed  dismay  around, 

The  hero's  breast  received. 
''  Heaven  fights  on  our  side  ; 
The  day's  our  own  !  "  he  cried  ; 

"  Now  long  enough  I've  lived. 
In  honor's  cause  my  life  was  passed. 
In  honoi-'s  cause  I  fall  at  last. 

For  England,  home,  and  beauty  !  " 
Thus  ending  life  as  he  began  : 
England  confessed  that  ever}-  man 

That  dav  had  done  his  duty. 

Arnold. 


HOAV   SLEEP  THE  BRAVE.  —  CHAE^\DE.  281 


HOW  SLEEP  THE    BRAVE. 


How  sleep  the  brave,  who  shik  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  the  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

Bv  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dii'ge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  a  while  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 


Collins. 


oJ«><c 


CHARADE. 


Come  from  my  First,  ay,  come  ! 

For  the  battle-hour  is  nigh  : 
And  the  screaming  trump  and  thundering  drum 

Are  calling  thee  to  die  I 


tILVKADE. 


Figlit,  as  tin-  father  fought .' 

Fall,  as  thy  father  fell"' 
Thy  task  is  taught,  thy  shroud  is  wrought-- 

J50  —  onward  —  and  farewell.  ' 

Toll  ye  my  Second,  toll  ! 

Fling  wide  the  flambeau's  li-ht 
And  sing  the  hymn  f„r  a  parted  soul 

Beneath  the  silent  ni<dit 
With  the  wreath  upon  his  head. 

And  the  cross  upon  his  breast. 

LeMhep..yer  be  said,  and  the  tear  be  shed:-- 
^o  —  take  him  to  his  rest ! 

Callj-emy  Whole,— ay  —  cdl 
rp,      ,  '       '^>  5       call 

-The  lord  of  kite  and  lay  ' 
And  let  him  greet  the  sable  pall 

With  a  noble  song  to-day. 
Ay,  call  him  by  his  name  ' 

Nor  fitter  hand  nuxv  craye 
To  light  the  flame  of  a  soldier's  fame 

On  the  turf  of  a  soldier's  graye! 

Pkaed. 


BUKIAL   OF   THE  MlNNlSiNK. 


283 


BURIAL    OF   THE   MINNISINK. 


r^ 


I^N  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell 

The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 
And,  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glor\'  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.    One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far-uplifted  cone. 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone ; 

An  image  of  hie  silver  lakes 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ;  and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave. 
To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 


284  BURIAL   or   THE   MlX^sI.slNK, 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  tlie  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  tliirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  davs. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavN'  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war.  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds. 
And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dariv-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death-dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame. 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief. 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress. 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless. 
With  darthig  eve  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread. 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crcnvd. 


MY  KATE.  285 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;  they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle-steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !      One  piercing  neigh 
Arose,  —  and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 

Longfellow. 


oJ»<c 


MT    KATE. 


vShe  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know. 
And  yet  all  your  best  made  of  sunshine  and  snow 
Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the   long-trodden  ways. 
While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days  — 

My  Kate. 


Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a  grace  ; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her  face  : 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth  — 

^ly  Kate. 


286  MY  Ki\.TE. 

III. 
Such  a  blue  inner  light  trom  her  eyelids  outbroke. 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke  : 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone. 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone  — 

My  Kate. 

IV. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion  ;  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise  ;  I  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others  made  you  think  of  her  — 

My  Kate. 

V. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you.  nc\cr  ini})licd 
Your  wrong  by  her  right ;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown  — 

My  Kate. 

VI. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 

Thev  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used,  —  that  was  all  ^ 

If  vou   praised   her  as   cluinning,   some  asked  what  you 

meant. 
But  the  charm  of  her  presence  \vas  felt  when  she  went  — 

Mv  Kate.- 


DAYBIIEAK.  .         287 

VII. 
The  weak  and  the  p,entle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all  good  ; 
It  always  was  so  wdth  her  —  see  what  you  have  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here  .  .  .  with   her 
grave  — 

My  Kate. 

VIII. 

My  dear  one  !  —  when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest. 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best   : 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part 
As  thv  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  mv  sweet  Heart  • — 

My  Kate. 

Mrs.  Browning. 


DA  TBREAK. 


A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on. 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 


288  DAYBREAK. 

And  hurried  landward  tar  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake  !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing. 
And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing  I  " 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer  ! 
Your  clarion  blow  ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  licllVy-towcr, 
"Awake,  O  bell!  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  church-yard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet!  in  quiet  lie." 

LONt;FELLOW. 


FLOWERS.  289 


FLOWERS, 


w 


E  are  the  sweet  flowers, 
Born  of  sunny  showers, 
(Think,  whene'er  you  see  us,  what  our  beauty 
saith  ;) 
Utterance  mute  and  bright, 
Of  some  unknown  delight, 
We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure  by  our  simple  breath  ; 
All  who  see  us  love  us,  — 
We  befit  all  places  ; 
Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles,  and  unto  graces,  graces. 

Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 
All,  and  sweetly  voiceless, 
Though  the  March-winds  pipe,  to  make  our  passage 
clear ; 
Not  a  whisper  tells 
Where  our  small  seed  dwells. 
Nor  is  known  the  moment  green  when  our  tips  appear. 
We  thread  the  earth  in  silence. 
In  silence  build  our  bowers,  — 
And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till  we   laugh  a-top, 
sweet  flowers. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


290  THE  USE  OF  FLOWERS. 


777^    USE    OF  FLOWERS. 


God  might  have  bade  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree, 

Without  a  flower  at  all. 

We  might  have  had  enough,  enough 

For  every  want  of  ours, 
For  luxury,  medicine,  and  toil, 

And  yet  have  had  no  flowers. 

The  ore  within  the  mountain  mine 

Requireth  none  to  grow  ; 
Nor  doth  it  need  the  lotus-flower 

To  make  the  river  flow. 

The  clouds  might  give  abundant  rain. 

The  nightly  dews  might  fall, 
And  the  lierb  that  kcepeth  life  in  man 

Might  yet  have  drunk  them  all. 

Then  wherefore,  wherefore  were  they  made, 

All  dy'ed  with  rainbow  liglit, 
All  fashioned  with  supremcst  grace, 

Upspringing  day  and  night,  — 


THE   PALM-TREE.  291 

Springing  in  valleys  green  and  low, 

And  on  the  mountain  high, 
And  in  the  silent  wilderness. 

Where  no  man  passes  by  ? 

Our  outward  life  requires  them  not, 
Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ?  — 

To  minister  delight  to  man, 
To  beautify  the  earth  ; 

To  comfort  man,  to  whisper  hope 

Whene'er  his  faith  is  dim  ; 
For  Whoso  careth  for  the  flowers 

Will  much  more  care  for  him. 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 


Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm. 

On  the  Indian  sea  by  the  isles  of  balm  ? 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath. 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark  sheath. 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 


292  THE  PALM-TREE. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails. 
Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails. 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well.'' 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 

But  liollow^ed  nuts,  lllled  with  oil  and  wine, 

And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the  Line .'' 

The  master  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is  quaffed, 
And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from  the  sun  aloft. 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 

And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his  hands. 

Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  commands. 

The  turlian  folded  about  his  head 

Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm-leaf  braid. 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed  as  one ! 


THE  PALM-TREE. 


293 


To  him  the  pahn  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine,  — 
House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and  wine. 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release. 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in  jDcace. 

"  Allah  il  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm. 
On  the  Indian  sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ; 
"  Thanks  to  Allah  who  gives  the  palm  !  " 

Whittier. 


'v^~w 


■294: 


THE   EMPEROR'S  BIRD'S-NEST. 


T//B    EMPEROR'S    BIRD'S-NEST, 


NCE  the  Emperor  Charles  of  Spain 

With  his  swarthy,  grave  commanders, 
I  forget  in  what  campaign, 
Long  besieged  in  mud  and  rain 

Some  old  frontier  town  in  Flanders. 

Up  and  down  the  dreary  camp, 
In  great  boots  of  Spanish  leather, 
Striding  with  a  measured  tramp. 
These  Hidalgos,  dull  and  damp. 

Cursed  tiie  Frenchmen,  cursed  the  weather. 

Thus  as  to  and  fro  they  went, 

Over  upland  and  through  hollow, 

Giving  their  impatience  vent, 

Perched  upon  the  Emperor's  tent. 
In  her  nest,  they  spied  a  swallow. 

Yes,  it  was  a  swallow's  nest. 

Built  of  clay  and  hair  of  horses, 
Mane  or  tail,  or  dragoon's  crest. 
Found  on  hedge-rows  east  and  west, 
After  skirmish  of  the  forces. 


THE  e:mperor's  BIRD'S-NEST.  295 

"  Let  no  hand  the  bird  molest," 

Said  the  Emperor,  "  nor  liurt  her  !  " 

Adding  then,  by  way  of  jest, 

"  Golondrina'  is  my  guest, 

'Tis  the  wife  of  some  deserter  !  " 


Swift  as  bow-string  speeds  a  shaft, 

Through  the  camp  was  spread  the  rumor, 

x'Vnd  the  soldiers,  as  they  quaffed 

Flemish  beer  at  dinner,  laughed 
At  the  Emperor's  pleasant  humor. 

So  unarmed  and  unafraid 

Sat  the  swallow  still  and  brooded, 
Till  the  constant  cannonade 
Through  the  walls  a  breach  had  made. 

And  the  siege  was  thus  concluded. 

Then  the  army,  elsewhere  bent, 
Struck  its  tents  as  if  disbanding, 

Only  not  the  Emperor's  tent. 

For  he  ordered,  ere  he  went, 

Very  curtly,  "  Leave  it  standing  !  " 

'  Swallow.      Also  meanini'  a  deserter. 


296  TO  A  REDBREAST. 

So  it  stood  there  all  alone. 

Loosely  flapping,  torn,  and  tattered, 

Till  the  brood  was  fledged  and  flown. 

Singing  o'er  those  walls  of  stone 

Which  the  cannon-shot  had  shattered. 

Longfellow. 


TO  A   REDBREAST. 


Little  bird,  with  bosom  red, 
Welcome  to  my  humble  shed  ! 
Courtly  domes  of  high  degree 
Have  no  room  for  thee  or  me  ; 
Pride  and  pleasure's  fickle  throng 
Nothing  mind  an  idle  song. 
Daily  near  my  table  steal, 
While  I  pick  my  scanty  meal. 
Doubt  not,  little  though  there  be, 
But  I'll  cast  a  crumb  to  thee, 
Well  rewarded  if  I  spy 
Pleasure  in  thy  glancing  eye  ; 
See  thee,  when  thou'st  eat  thy  fill, 
Plume  thy  breast,  and  wipe  thy  bill. 
Come,  my  feathered  friend,  again. 
Well  thou  know'st  the  broken  pane. 

Langhorne, 


THE  BEGGAR.  297 


THE    BEGGAR. 


A  beggar  through  this  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by  ; 
Fill  up  ni}'  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity ! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me,  — 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow. 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below, 
And  firm-set  roots,  unmoved  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might. 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight,  — 
That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance, 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance,  — 
Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 

Some  of  thy  mournfulness  serene, 
Some  of  the  never-dying  green, 


298  THE  BEGGAB. 

Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine,  — 

That  grief  may  fall  like  snow-flakes  light, 

And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 

Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright,  — 

O  sweetly  mournful  pine  ! 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me,  my  cheerful  brook,  — 
That  I  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fcite  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I  have  been  in  the  wood ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good-by,  kind  friends,  every  one, 
I've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun  : 
Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me  !  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet.'' 
Some  of  thy  modesty. 
That  flowers  here  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou'dst  been, 

Oh,  give,  to  strengthen  me. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 


JOHN  BARLEYCORN.  299 


JOHN  BARLETCORN. 


There  went  three  kings  into  the  East, 
Three  kings  both  great  and  high  ; 

And  they  have  sworn  a  solemn  oath, 
John  Barleycorn  shall  die. 

They  took  a  plough  and  ploughed  him  down, 

Put  clods  upon  his  head ; 
And  they  have  sworn  a  solemn  oath, 

John  Barleycorn  was  dead. 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on, 

And  showers  began  to  fall ; 
John  Barleycorn  got  up  again, 

And  sore  surprised  them  all. 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong ; 
His  head  well  armed  with  pointed  spears, 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

The  sober  autumn  entered  mild, 

And  he  grew  wan  and  pale  ; 
His  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 

Showed  he  began  to  fail. 


300  JOIIN  BARLEYCORN. 

His  color  sickened  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age  ; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They  took  a  weapon  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
Then  tied  him  fast  upon  a  cart, 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgery. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 
And  cudgelled  him  full  sore  ; 

They  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 
And  turned  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  filled  up  then  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim. 
And  heaved  in  poor  John  Barleycorn, 

To  let  him  sink  or  swim. 

They  laid  him  out  u})()n  the  floor, 

To  work  him  further  woe  ; 
And  still  as  signs  of  life  appeared, 

They  tossed  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame 

The  marrow  of  his  bones  ; 
But  the  miller  used  him  worst  of  all. 

For  he  cruslied  him  between  two  stones. 


THERE   WAS  A  JOLLY  MILLER.  301 

And  they  have  taken  his  very  heart's  blood, 

And  drunk  it  round  and  round  ; 
And  so  farewell,  John  Barleycorn  I 

Thy  fate  thou  now  hast  found. 

Burns. 

THERE    WAS  A    JOLLl'  MILLER. 


There  was  a  jolly  miller  once  lived  on  the  river  Dee, 
He  danced  and  sung  from   morn  till  night,  —  no  lark  so 

blithe  as  he  ; 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  song  forever  used  to  be  : 
"  I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I,  if  nobody  cares  for  me. 

"I  live  by  my  mill,  God  bless  her!   she's  kindred,  child, 

and  wife  ; 
I  would  not  change  my  station  for  any  other  in  life  ; 
No  lawyer,  surgeon,  or  doctor,  e'er  had  a  groat  from  me  ; 
I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I,  if  nobody  cares  for  me." 

When  spring  begins  his  merry  career,  oh,  how  his  heart 

grows  gay  ! 
No  sumniei"'s  drought  alarms  his  fears,  nor  winter's  cold 

decay  ; 


302 


THERE  WAS  A  JOLLY  MILLER. 


No  foresight  mars  the  miller's  joy,  who's  wont  to  sing 

and    say  : 
"Let  others -toil  from  year  to  year,  I  live  from  day  to 

day." 

Thus,   like  the  miller,  bold  and  free,  let  us  rejoice  and 

sing. 
The  days  of  youth  are  made  for  glee,  and  time  is  on  the 

wing. 
This  song  shall  pass  from   me  to  thee,  along  the  jovial 

ring,  — 
Let  heart  and  voice,  and  all   agree,  to  say,  "  Long  live 

the  king!" 

BiCKERSTAFFE. 


THE  FRIAR  OF   ORDERS   GRAY.  303 


THE   FRIAR    OF   ORDERS    GRAY. 


It  was  a  friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads  ; 

And  he  met  with  a  lady  fair, 
Clad  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds. 

"  Now  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar  ! 

I  pray  thee  tell  to  me, 
If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 

My  true-love  thou  didst  see." 

"  And  how  should  I  know  your  true-love 

From  man}'  another  one?"  — 
"  Oh,  by  his  cockle-hat  and  staff, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon. 

"  But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien. 

That  were  so  fair  to  view  ; 
His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled, 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue." 

"  O  lady,  he  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

Lady,  he's  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  at  his  head  a  green  grass  turf. 

And  at  his  heels  a  stone. 


304  TILE  FRIAR  OF   ORDERS   GRAY. 

"Within  tliese  lioly  cloisters  long 
He  languished,  and  he  died 

Lamenting  of  a  lady's  love, 
And  'plaining  of  her  pride. 

"  They  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier, 
Six  proper  youths  and  tall, 

And  many  a  tear  bedewed  his  grave 
Within  yon  kirk-yard  wall." 

"  And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth  ; 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone  ? 
And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  .'* 

Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone  !  " 

"  Oh,  weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so, 
Some  ghostly  comfort  seek  ; 

Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 
Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek." 

"Oh,  do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar. 

My  sorrow  now  reproxc  ; 
For  I  have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 

That  e'er  won  lady's  love. 

"And  now,  alas!   for  thy  sad  loss 

I'll  ever  weep  and  sigh  ; 
For  thee  I  only  wished  to  live, 

For  thee  I  wish  to  die." 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS   GRAY.  305 

"  Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more. 

Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain  ; 
For  violets  plucked  the  sweetest  showers 

Will  ne'er  make  grow  again." 

"  Oh,  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so  ; 
For  since  my  true-love  died  for  me, 

'Tis  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

"And  will  he  never  come  again.'' 

Will  he  ne'er  come  again  ? 
Ah,  no  !  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave, 

Forever  to  remain. 

"  His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose; 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he  ; 
But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave : 

Alas,  and  woe  is  me  !  " 

"  Sigh  no  moi'e,  lady,  sigh  no  more; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever  ; 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  shore, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false. 

And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy  ; 
For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 

Since  summer-trees  were  leafy." 


306         THE  FRLUl  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

"  Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 

I  pray  thee  say  not  so  ; 
My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart, 

Oh,  he  was  ever  true  ! 

"  And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth 

And  didst  thou  die  for  me  ? 
Then,  farewell  home  ;  for  evermore 

A  pilgrim  I  will  be. 

"  But  first  upon  my  true-love's  grave 

My  weary  limbs  I'll  la}-. 
And  thrice  I'll  kiss  the  green  grass  turf 

That  wraps  his  breathless  clay." 

"  Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  rest  awhile 

Beneath  this  cloister  wall  ; 
See,  tlirough  the  hawthorn  blows  the  wind. 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall." 

"  Oh,  stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar. 

Oh,  stay  me  not,  1  pray  ! 
No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me 

Can  wash  my  fault  away." 

"Yet  stay,  fair  ladN'.  turn  again, 

And  dry  those  pearly  tears  ; 
For  see,  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 

Thy  own  true-love  appears. 


THE  FRL'VE,  OF  ORDERS  GRAY.  307 

'  Here,  forced  by  grief  and  hopeless  love, 

These  holy  weeds  I  sought, 
And  here  amid  these  lonely  walls 
To  end  my  days  I  thought. 

"  But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 

Is  not  yet  passed  away, 
Might  I  still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 

''  Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy, 

Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 
For  since  I've  found  thee,  lovely  youth. 

We  never  more  will  part." 

Percy. 


308      BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND. 


BLOW,   BLOW,    THOU   WINTER    WIND. 


Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  win4 ! 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude  ! 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Height  ho  !  sing  heigh,  ho  !   unto  the  green  holly, 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly. 
Then  heigh,  ho  !  the  holly  ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky ! 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot ! 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 

Heigh,  he  !  etc.,  etc. 

Shakespeare. 


LLEWELLYN  AND  HIS  DOG.  309 


LLEWELLYN  AND  HIS  DOG. 


The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound, 
And  cheer'ly  smiled  the  morn  ; 

And  many  a  dog,  and  many  a  hound, 
Attend  Llewellyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast, 

And  gave  a  louder  cheer ; 
"  Come,  Gelert !  why  art  thou  the  last 

Llewellyn's  horn  to  hear.'' 

"  Oh,  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam, 

The  flower  of  all  his  race.'' 
So  true,  so  brave  —  a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase." 

That  day  Llewellyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  or  hare, 
And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved, 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewellyn  homeward  hied, 
When,  near  the  portal  seat. 

His  truant  Gelert  he  espied, 
Bounding  his  lord  to  greet. 


310  LLEWELLYN  AND  HIS  DOG. 

But  when  he  gained  the  castle  door, 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  ; 
The  hound  was  smeared  with  gouts  of  gore, 

His  hps  and  fangs  ran  blood  ! 

Llewellyn  gazed  with  wild  surprise  ; 

Unused  such  looks  to  meet, 
His  fav'rite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 

And  crouched,  and  licked  his  feet. 

Onward  in  haste  Llewelhn  passed 

(And  on  went  Gelert  too) , 
And  still,  where'er  his  eves  were  cast, 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view  ! 

O'erturned  his  infant's  bed  he  found. 
The  blood-stained  cover  rent ; 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent. 

He  called  his  child  —  no  voice  replied  ; 

He  searched  with  terror  wild  ; 
Blood  !  blood  !   he  found  on  every  side, 

But  nowhere  found  his  child  I 

"  Hell-hound  !  by  thee  my  child's  devoured  I 

The  frantic  father  cried  ; 
And  to  the  hilt  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelert's  side. 


His  suppliant,  as  to  eaith  he  fell, 

No  pity  could  impait ; 
But  still  his  Gelert's  dyhig  yell 

Passed  heavy  o'er  his  heart. 


Aroused  by  Gelert's  dying  yell, 
Some  slumberer  wakened  nigh  ; 

What  words  the  parent's  joy  can  tell, 
To  hear  his  infant  cry  ! 


312  LLEWELLYN  A2sD  HIS  DOG. 

Concealed  beneath  a  mangled  heap, 
His  hurried  search  had  missed, 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep, 
His  cherub  boy  he  kissed  ! 

Nor  scratch  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread, 
But  the  same  couch  beneath 

Lay  a  great  wolf,  all  torn  and  dead,  — 
Tremendous  still  in  death  ! 

Ah,  what  was  then  Llewellyn's  pain  ! 

For  now  the  truth  was  clear ; 
The  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain, 

To  save  Llewellyn's  heir. 

Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewellvn's  woe  ; 

"  Best  of  thy  kind,  adieu  ! 
The  frantic  deed  which  laid  thee  low 

This  heart  shall  ever  rue  !  " 

And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raised, 
With  costly  sculpture  decked  ; 

And  marbles  storied  with  his  praise 
Poor  Gelcrt's  bones  protect. 

Here  never  could  the  spearman  pass, 

Or  forester,  luimovcd, 
Here  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 
•  Llewellyn's  sorrow  proved. 


THE  BOAT  OF  GRASS.  313 

And  here  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear, 

And  oft,  as  evening  fell, 
In  fancy's  piercing  sounds  would  hear 

Poor  Gelert's  dying  yell. 

SOUTHEY. 

THE  BOAT  OF   GRASS, 


For  years  the  slave  endured  his  yoke, 

Down-trodden,  wronged,  misused,  oppressed  ; 

Yet  life-long  serfdom  could  not  choke 
The  seeds  of  freedom  in  his  breast. 

At  length,  upon  the  north  wind  came 
A  whisper  stealing  through  the  land  ; 

It  spread  from  hut  to  hut  like  flame, — 
"  Take  heart :  the  hour  is  near  at  hand  !  " 

The  whisper  spread,  and  lo  !  on  high 
The  dawn  of  an  unhoped-for  day  ! 

"  Be  glad  :  the  Northern  troops  are  nigh,  — 
The  fleet  is  in  Port-Royal  Bay  !  " 

Responsive  to  the  words  of  cheer, 
An  inner  voice  said,  "  Rise  and  flee ! 

Be  strong,  and  cast  away  all  fear : 
Thou  art  a  man,  and  thou  art  free  !  " 


314  THE  BOAT  OF  GRASS. 

And,  full  of  new-born  hope  and  might, 
He  started  up,  and  seaward  fled  : 

By  day  he  turned  aside  ;  by  night 

He  followed  where  the  North  Star  led. 

Through  miles  of  barren  pine  and  waste, 
And  endless  breadth  of  swamp  and  sedge, 

By  streams,  whose  winding  path  is  traced 
In  tangled  growth  along  their  edge  ; 

Two  nights  he  fled,  —  no  sound  was  heard, 
.He  met  no  creature  on  his  way  ; 

Two  days  crouched  in  tlic  bush  ;  the  third. 
He  hears  the  blood-liounds'  distant  bay. 

They  drag  him  back  to  stripes  and  shame. 

And  bitter,  unrequited  toil  ; 
With  red-hot  chains  liis  feet  they  maim. 

All  future  thought  of  flight  to  foil. 

But  the  celestial  voice,  that  spake 

Clear  in  his  soul,  might  not  be  hushed ; 

The  sense  of  birthright,  once  awake. 
Could  never,  never  more  be  crushed. 

And,  brave  of  heart  and  strong  of  will. 

He  kept  his  purpose,  laid  his  plan  ; 
Though  crippled,  chained,  and  captive  still, 

A  slave  no  longer,  but  a  man. 


Eleven  months  his  soul  he  steeled 

To  toil  and  wait  in  silent  pain,  -;^^f\-^- 

But  in  the  twelfth  his  wounds  were  healed, — 
He  burst  his  bonds,  and  fled  again. 

A  weary  winding  stream  he  sought. 
And  crossed  its  waters  to  and  fro,  — 

An  Indian  wile,  to  set  at  nought 
The  bloody  instinct  of  his  foe. 


316  THE  BOAT  OF   GRASS. 

The  waters  widen  to  a  fen, 

And,  —  while  he  hid  him,  breathless,  there, - 
With  brutal  cries  of  dogs  and  men. 

The  hunt  went  round  and  round  his  lair. 

The  baffled  hounds  had  lost  the  track : 
With  many  a  curse  and  many  a  cry 

The  angry  owners  called  them  back  ; 
And  so  the  wild  pursuit  went  by. 

The  deadly  peril  seemed  to  pass  ; 

And  then  he  dared  to  raise  his  head 
Above  the  waving  swampy  grass, 

That  mantled  o'er  the  river-bed. 

Those  long  broad  leaves  that  round  him  grew 
He  had  been  wont  to  bind  and  plait ; 

And  well,  with  simple  skill,  he  knew 
To  shape  the  basket  and  the  mat. 

Now,  in  their  tresses  sad  and  dull 
He  saw  the  hope  of  his  escape, 

And  patiently  began  to  cull. 

And  weave  them  in  canoe-like  shape. 

To  give  the  reedv  fabric  slight 

An  armor  'gainst  the  soaking  brine, 

With  painful  care  he  sought  by  night 
The  amber  weepings  of  the  pine. 


THE  BOAT  OF  GRASS.  317 

And,  since  on  the  Egyptian  wave 
Xhe  Hebrew  launched  her  little  ark, 

Faith  never  to  God's  keeping  gave 
So  great  a  hope,  so  frail  a  bark. 

O  silent  river  of  the  South, 

Whose  lonely  stream  ne'er  felt  the  oar 
In  all  its  course,  from  rise  to  mouth, 

What  precious  freight  was  that  you  bore  ! 

But  still  the  boat,  from  dawn  to  dark, 
'Neath  overhanging  shrubs  was  drawn : 

And,  loosed  at  eve,  the  little  bark 
Safe  floated  on  from  dark  to  dawn. 

At  length,  in  that  mysterious  hour 
That  comes  before  the  break  of  day. 

The  current  gained  a  swifter  power, 
The  boat  began  to  rock  and  sway. 

He  felt  the  wave  beneath  him  swell. 
His  nostrils  drank  a  fresh  salt  breath, 

The  boat  of  rushes  rose  and  fell ;  — 
"  Lord  !   is  it  life,  or  is  it  death.'"' 

He  saw  the  eastern  heaven  spanned 
With  a  slow-spreading  belt  of  gray ; 

Tents  glimmered,  ghost-like,  on  the  sand ; 
And  phantom  ships  before  him  lay. 


318  THE  BOAT  OF  GRASS. 

The  sky  grew  bright,  the  day  awoke, 
The  sun  flashed  up  above  the  sea, 

From  countless  drum  and  bugle  broke 
The  joyous  Northern  reveille. 

O  white-winged  warriors  of  the  deep  ! 

No  heart  e'er  hailed  you  so  before  : 
No  castaway  on  desert  steep, 

Nor  banished  man,  his  exile  o'er, 

Nor  drowning  wretch  lashed  to  a  spar, 
So  blessed  your  rescuing  sails  as  he 

Who  on  them  first  beheld  from  far 
The  morning-light  of  Liberty  I 

Mrs.  Wister. 


HE  PRAYETH  WELL  WHO  LOVETH  WELL.    319 


HE  PRAYETH    WELL    WHO  LOVETH    WELL. 


Oh,  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 

With  a  goodly  company  ! 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 

And  all  together  pray, 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends,  — ■ 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends. 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay. 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest! 
He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  ^^•ell 

Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us. 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

Coleridge. 


320  GOOD-NIGHT,  GOOD-BY. 


G  O  OD-NIGHT,     G  O  OD-B  T. 


Say  not  good-by !     Dear  friend,  from  thee 
A  word  too  sad  that  word  would  be. 
Say  not  good-by  !     Say  but  good-night, 
And  say  it  with  thy  tender,  light. 
Caressing  voice,  that  links  the  bliss 
Of  yet  another  day  with  this. 
Say  but  good-night ! 

Say  not  good-by  !     Say  but  good-night : 
A  word  that  blesses  in  its  flight, 
In  leaving  hope  of  many  a  kind, 
Sweet  day,  like  this  we  leave  behind. 
Say  but  good-night !     Oh,  never  say 
A  word  that  taketh  thee  away  ! 

Say  but  good-night !     Good-night ! 

Dora  Greenwell. 


LIFE.  321 


LIFE. 


Lite  !   1  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

Life,  we  have  been  long  together. 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 

'Tis  hard  to  part  where  friends  are  dear, 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear. 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning  ; 

Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  Good-night,  but  in  some  blighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good-morning. 

Mrs.  Barbauld. 


'■#-»r 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 


••  1  hear  thee  speak  of  the  better  land  ; 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother  !  oh,  where  is  that  radiant  shore? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? 


Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows. 
And  the  tire-flies  dance  through    the    myrtle 
boughs?" — 
"  Not  there,  not  there.  \w\  child  !  " 


•  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise, 
?;,'     And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies? 
^/     Or  midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze. 


THE   BETTER  LAND.  323 

And  strange  bright  birds  on  their  starry  wings 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things?"  — 
•'  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  !  " 

"  Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold  ? 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine, 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine. 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the  coral  strand? 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ? "  — 
"  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  ! 

•'  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy  ; 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy  ; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair,  — 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there  ; 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom  ; 
For  beyond  the  clouds  and  beyond  the  tomb, 
It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child  !  " 

Mks.  Hemans. 


324  HEAVEN. 


HE  A  VEN. 


Oh,  what  is  this  splendor  that  beams  on  me  now, 
Tliis  beautiful  sunrise  that  dawns  on  my  soul, 

While  faint  and  far  off  land  and  sea  lie  below, 
And  under  my  feet  the  huge  golden  clouds  roll? 

To  what  mighty  king  doth  this  city  belong. 

With    its    rich    jewelled    shrines,    and    its    gardens   of 
flowers  ; 

With  its  breaths  of  sweet  incense,  its  measures  of  song. 
And  the  li"ht  that  is  jrildingr  its  numberless  towers? 


And,  oh,  if  the  exiles  of  earth  could  but  win 
One  sight  of  the  beaut\'  of  Jesus  above. 

From  that  hour  thex  would  cease  to  be  able  to  sin. 
And  earth  would  be  heaven  ;  for  heaven  is  love. 


Kaiser. 


THE  CHILD'8  DESIRE.  325 


THE    CHILD'S    DESIRE. 


I  think,  as  I  read  that  sweet  story  of  old, 

When  Jesus  was  here  among  men. 
How  He  called  little  children  as  lambs  to  His  fold, 

I  should  like  to  have  been  with  them  then. 
1  wish  that  His  hands  had  been  placed  on  my  head, 

That  His  arms  had  been  thrown  around  me, 
And  that  1  might  have  seen  His  kind  look  when  He  said, 

"  Let  the  little  ones  come  unto  me." 

But  still  to  His  footstool  in  prayer  I  may  go. 

And  ask  for  a  share  in  His  love  ; 
And  if  I  thus  earnestly  seek  Him  below, 

I  shall  see  Him  and  hear  Him  above. 
In  that  beautiful  place  He  has  gone  to  prepare 

For  all  that  are  washed  and  forgiven  ; 
And  many  dear  children  are  gathering  there, 

"  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

Mks.  Like. 


Children,  thank  (iod  tor  these  great  trees, 
That  tan  the  huid  with  every  breeze  ; 
Whose  drooping  branches  form  cool  bowers. 
\Vniere  you  can  spend  the  summer  hours,  — 
For  these  thank  God. 

For  fragrant  sweets  of  blossoms  bright, 
Whose  beauty  gives  }'Ou  such  delight ; 
For  the  soft  grass  beneath  your  feet. 
For  new-mown  hay,  and  clover  sweet,  — 
For  all  thank  God. 


\Bl. 


■M:*-^f 


CHILDREN,   THANK  GOD.  327 

The  very  cows,  that  lie  and  doze 
Beneath  the  trees  in  glad  repose  ; 
The  birds,  that  in  their  branches  sing, 
And  make  the  air  with  music  ring, 
All  these  thank  God. 

Oh,  thank  God  for  the  radiant  sky. 
Whose  varying  beauty  charms  the  eye, — 
Now  gray  and  dark,  now  blue  and  bright, 
Unfailing  source  of  pure  delight,  — 
For  this  thank  God. 

He  gives  the  life  to  everything,  — 
To  beasts  that  roar,  and  birds  that  sing. 
But  thought  and  speech  he  gave  to  men, 
While  beasts  are  dumb  :   O  children,  then. 
For  this  thank  God  ! 

Rhyming  Storv-Book. 


•V* 


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